A latent fearing atmosphere, its nature oppressive
Desolate castle brooding silently; still; asleep
This rock of protection hidden curtains darkness within engulfed
By a spite. Here sits my love late at night staring mournfully
This, our Danae, cradled head, staring out at vast expanses wondering
Which god shall deliver her from her prison keep?
To yonder light he stands and stares, face grim, eyes full of grit
This light he can see burning, a candle burning
And a shadow he has fallen in love with, meticulous, complete; woman.
His heart sporadic, his head alive, his spirits high
Approaches this pistil holding aloft an incomplete passion
Cupped white and hot to dry in barren wastes
How an audience held captive long for deliverance of
True love’s fated kiss; destiny that hallowed tome
Emptiness, regret and that longing that claws at one’s chest
How we all anticipate the hero fighting over the black moat
Breaching the black walls, hard eyes and silver sword
A determination Canute would envy this forevermore
Only in the pages of fable, folklore, or the songs of bards
Or the flickering glitter of movie screens do these scenes unfold
In the cold darkness of reality, all is forgotten, neglected
The castle walls climb with moss, the hero is waylaid in the tavern
And imprisoned Danae in desperation claws the mortar from the walls
The candle burned to but a snub, no light, no hope, nothing more.