silence in the quiet house
a cimmerian shade sneaks in
a man sits, strangled by the dark
choking on a merciless wind.
from his lips a whisper slips
a susurrus of breath,
abysmal sorrow takes his heart—
certainly this will mean his death.
he strains his soul for happiness
yet it is he the smile eludes.
he strains his eyes to scribe his thoughts
in the stygian ink: he broods.
his hunger is insatiable
for knowledge he can't find
he wanders his thoughts like a wayfarer
through the secrets trapped inside his mind.
there's confusion in his gut—
it bites. his sallow skin drags low,
he draws his head into his hands;
his eyes have lost their lucent glow.
the temerity of wisdom
to unman his very self
a blessing it would be
to place desire on a shelf.
yet he can't leave this want alone
this yearning to know more
to understand this world; its works;
or at least, an overture.
if only he could see it
and calm his stuttered breaths,
if only he'd rather trust his mind
than drown in the waters of lethe.
open his ears and he might hear
the supernal lullaby
in the starry, dark empyrean
that begs him to open his eyes.
for he'd see it is he who stifles himself
he—not the monster he dreads.
his limit's braided in his doubts;
the truth's within his head.
he's forced it into slumber
he believes it to be accursed
he hesitates in reason
and for that, his plight is worse.
he sits still in his misery
through night and into dawn,
no sword can transpierce his hopelessness
when all his hope is gone.
pity, how he's found himself
a wanstrel, all alone
he feels that he does not belong;
he doesn't know he's home.
a shame, he doesn't know.
that his mind, his cursed mind,
is the one who holds the key
and this demon whom he struggles with—
it's the one who will set him free.
a devil though it often seems,
his mind will set
him
free.
