Tuesday, October 30, 2007

To the Victor Go the Spoils...

I sense it slipping in again.
Although I cannot see it.
Sunny days and star lit nights,
Say nothing of this visitor’s approach.

It probes the walls of my defense, determined in its efforts.
Poking here, pushing there, probing without rest,
Until it finds a place to squeeze through the stones,
And slithers in between Hope and Desperation.

The watchmen on the parapets, stand vigilant at their posts,
Blinded by their confidence in things as yet untested.
New measures they have slid in place, to deny this villain entry,
Fail before it one by one, no match for this ancient warrior.

Once inside it stops to rest, coiled and at the ready,
There is no rush, for time is its favored ally.
It breathes in deep the air of peace and happiness around it,
And exhales a haze of silent sadness into the courtyard of my soul.

Brought forth from the wretched womb of Misery,
Daughter of the House of Despair, a harlot of the night.
The bastard creature knows not its father,
For its mother has lain with countless lovers.

But it knows the history of its fathers House,
Its features mark the pedigree from there to here.
Its cold dark heart pushes blue-black blood,
That belongs to House of Unspoken Secrets.

It eats its fill from my garden of Life,
Glutting itself on Reason, Will and Goodness.
Self-Respect and Humility lay wilting on the putrid ground,
Wallowed down to the breaking point beneath its scaly belly.

It pulls me down and replaces my breath with its own,
A vile venomous fog that paralyzes my spirit with hopelessness.
And all that remains to be done is to wait for relief,
At the time and place of its choosing.

I cover myself with a blanket of restless sleep,
The only antidote I have found to treat this poison,
While the creature gorges and takes its fill,
Then slips away unnoticed at the end of this long night.

As the fever breaks and strength returns, one spoonful at a time,
Fed as a bitter broth from the cauldron of Resolve, I heal.
To tarry is pure folly, for the creature will feel its hunger again,
Mend the walls and sow new seed, I must prepare for nightfall.

And I must be ready…
I must be ready this time.
My spirit is bruised and scarred, with eyes growing old and tired.
Each new battle could be the last, and who will stand the victor?

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson


Granny Sue said...

Sounds like the Old Man Himself is after you, Mike.

Although your subject is depression, I wondered as I read it if this was actually about the coming of winter. could read either way.

Strong imagery, and masterful use of language.

Mike said...

I have met Old Scratch on several occasions and shared a drink and conversation, I think. lol

Never thought it being relative to winter, but yes, it could go that way.

This is an older piece from several years back.