Thursday, 3 January 2013

The Transatlantic Project

This is the first entry for the Transatlantic Project.

Kirstin set me the words Mildew, Metal and Dusty.

This the poem:

The Box

I keep my heart in a metal box
Trapped behind a legion of locks
Trapped so long, the locks are rusty
The box is old, its surface dusty
Inside the organ beats but slow
Entombed by my grief an age ago

And yet its voice still haunts my sleep
Drawing me down to the dungeon deep
I wander the halls wrapped in slumber
My steps by thought unencumbered.
And there, through the thick stone wall
I hear its anguished beat, its frantic call

I claw at the stone, wear my fingers to shreds
Bash at the wall, using only my head
Rending the moss that grows on the wall
The mildew,the mould that covers it all
The ancient bricks shake, crumble away
My blows force them to crack, giving way.

Beyond lies a long forgotten room,
As still and silent as an ancient tomb
In the centre sits the thing I dread most
The box in its prison, chained to a post
The beat of its captive fills me with fear
I flee back to the house, my hands on my ears

My memory stirs, vivid and fresh
I remember her face, the scent of her flesh
I fall to my knees and claw at my face
Overcome by feelings I thought locked in place
Shaking, I stumble to the top of the tower
Betrayed by myself, at the darkest hour

There in the dark, under the moon's light
I recall the stranger who called that night
The bargain we struck as my love lay cold
To seal my guilt and loss until I was old
For the cost of my soul he would seal them away
Until the clarion call of judgement day

There at the edge, right on the drop
I shudder and shake, longing to stop
Two hundred years I have waited for death
To steal me away, to snuff out my breath
I can wait no more, I must have release
I step out into nothing. I know peace.

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