Interiors

if nothing else
i have learned to play
my part to the hilt,
build castles in the air
and flit with ease
from tower to moat.
it is not that i do not think
of shifting sands
and sail boats set adrift,
it is just that i cannot speak.

there is a river that runs
through my heart,
shrouded in mist
where the beaver works
on its winter home
and the salmon
heads for the sea,
around the bend,
in the sedge,
forked tongues flicker
and taste blood,
by the ledge
a barge moored,
loaded with the bones
of ravenous birds
picked clean by tide and time,
the ruins of flights of fancy
shot down.
but children still in their innocence
skip stones and practice walking on water.

in my aloneness,
i bless the night,
i bless the flowers
that bloom in the dark
and wither in the sun,
i love the mantle of darkness
and the invisibility that it affords.
i could take my clothes off
and run wild with the wind
and seek those dark caverns
where witches and their familiars meet.
i could be in my element,
be strong and brave,
crown myself the king of the night
and be content in my aloneness
and never look upon a human face again.

i say this not in arrogance,
think of dark prison walls,
think of rivers choked with piranhas,
think of nights with no end,
but you offer reason
to be outward bound,
to flush myself out of these thickets
and make my home
in your enchanted gardens.