In moments hence the haunting bends and dances in return, one breath to take between the panes of glass that holds its wicked burn.
Insatiate flickered spectre seldom stains a friendly gest, more apt to burn a grimaced sneer upon the walls of plaster’s mess. Solemn sheen in stroked repose, a black bird’s gaunt and rivulet eye, driven red by blackened hell in silhouette of the candle’s cry.
Enough! It wails to empty rooms that hold no hope or promise, so bathes despair in lapping light ‘cross ceiling’s naked beams and cornice. Its ghostly echoed beat is cast in vacant space there stretched and lost before the loft where passions stale and light is neither seen nor lost.
As the evening tarries on its sadness sorrows till its told, then bursts in lapping length of flame to blacken what remains in hold of prison glass wherein its held, a lantern’s captive, a jealous cell that can’t sustain the light of day, nor grant the loft a luscious play of softened shadows’ sensuous fall to lovers locked, or lonesome call. So lingers midst the tallowed fats to light the path to crumbs for rats, to bring the raven stuffed, to life, or simply fill this poet’s room with source for fear, with threat of gloom.
Good candle in your prison kept, ‘tis in fear’s pheromones that you’ve wept, now drowning in your sorrow’s blood, pooled upon your flame in flood, grieve not your life’s been spent in vain, for every shadow cast in flame between the glass that holds you in is granted life by poet’s pen.