Though starts with sleep, ending with none; I give tale of neither sorrow nor gay a mind, Hence muses, my mind yea creased enough; For enough is it that I dwell, and think alone When more my thoughts become my self, In points I arrest my soul do dreams declare: One night, those years ago, remembering so - The widest wake winked a moon 'neath ground, Blessed its ravine a drooping glow of white, By whose softer rain did drew tears down its cheek, As though fading, in each step a ripple would tear, Though cool was air and mild an air breathed was I, Surrounded by none but trees, crying its leaves away, I saw the rusted oaks and birchs give drooping sap, If I were an ant, I would surely have a beautiful ending, But no, I am that I am, and so that is all, stood side a cart, This girl approached and I asked what matter here: She answered not, my thoughts gone awry; This young girl, graced I figure not of the age, Who was she? Exploited, decieved, I thought, Extending my hand, I gave it freely, but she would not take, A few seconds here were hours then; I was beckoned leave, But no, it shall not be! Hind me was a mansion, I shall enter, Each creek sunk my heart, each breath paralysed an heart, If I had any, then I should confront her captor, But I had all, I hid in a nearby cubicle, shivering and weeping. Her footsteps could be heard, my heart would crack its glass, Let its fumes depart from me, let its morphine take me, If not a heartbreak, so kill me here. Let me die in my sleep! But no, her opening of the door led me to the gate, So I thought, but it was not. I could not fathom it, She transported me from the nether to the whither Unto which my bed still warm and there lay I as stone, Still, she was there; her eyes so wide, gowned in white; A scrutinising stare, still as petrified a rabbit's tail erect, In this dark room, she was the brightest spectre unseen, These past few hours have brought me here to this: Cannot move; cannot speak; cannot tilt my head; nothing. I could only groan, I can only breathe and stare, After minutes of visual discourse, she walked slow, Walked to the door, and still looking at me, waved, Grabbing my door, slowly departed. I waved back. Her leaving gave me back my senses, my voice, etc. Well, muses come forth, and this they did, Walking round my bed and into my wardrobe (and fro) They walked, and they walked slow, walking round, The spectres and the horned-beast would approach, Breathe their stale breaths into me and kiss my cheek, My drooping head would tear, a heart now beating slower Could cherish a moment's rest, asking for respite, asking: "Why do you do this to me? What fright! What is it with you?" I am the flame, I am the creased soul whose gaps invite all, Let them change me, let them mould me for dark or light, But I am afraid, like in my childhood being guided away, I have been haunted, and now even muses walk away. Trees would not be bristling, nor sap for my sight beheld, Though looking back, all these years, in just a few hours dream, No sleep could give me, nor dream bestow such a memory, That God hath sought in me to deliver my concept purposed.