11.7.2012

The hour was four when I woke from sleep,
With a vague consciousness of an appointment to keep,
But the night was cold and my blanket was deep,
So I turned off the light again,
Extinguished the bright again,
Switched off the current to lay down to sleep.

As soon as I had done so, I knew he had come,
By the chill in the air, by the dryness of my tongue,
I was filled with a hopeless desire to run,
I crept into my blanket,
Wished I had kept to my blanket,
And prayed for unconsciousness till the rise of the sun.

I felt his savage presence by the side of my bed,
As he turned slightly, I glimpsed his dark head,
That black-suited youth with eyes that flash red,
His face gleamed so slightly,
Glowed ever so lightly,
Shimmered with the colour of snow and the dead.

I tried to reason: "Sir," said I, politely,
"Surely you are aware your coming is untimely,
I am not accustomed to entertain visitors nightly."
And while I spoke he stared,
All the time I spoke he stared,
His eyes looked so coldly while his eyelids drooped blindly.

Now I was frightened, I turned my face to the dark wall,
Hummed a little hymn and tried hard to recall
The words of the song, to halt, to stall,
The pounding of my heart,
The wild thudding of my heart,
The beats of my heart that echoed off the walls.

So we stayed till he spoke, and his voice was like oil
Dripping off a skeleton into the black soil,
He spoke of pain, disaster and toil-
He spoke so calmly,
He did not wish to alarm me,
And all the while my soul filled with rot and spoil.

And at last came the dawn, the sunlight so clear
Flooded the room, and he disappeared.
Joy comes in the morning, but all that remains here
Is to wait for the night,
To dread when the light,
Will fade and I once again converse with Fear.