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.
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