The Sleeping Child
O hapless volition,
spun with a web of seduction,
darned with the needles of deception,
creeping through the corridors of night
with the light turned low
and the glow of the grim keeper…
silent as the soft shoes of sin.
You claim you can not help it,
and hardly breaking a sweat of conscience,
crawling on your knees
and never failing to fall…
O wanton meaning
where you mince words
and menace with the morphemes
of guiltless treason,
trailing with the decapitated head of reason
through the square
to the guillotine,
where the crowd knows the crime
but not the felon,
not the fellow on the false pilgrimage.
They bay for blood
while you wag your digits
‘Tush, tush, not I!’
Story upon story,
you tell tales of ‘the others’.
O careless wonder
layers excuse upon excuse
in the excruciating excavation of morality,
to tender the blueprints of a new building-site
in which storey upon storey
rigid and throbbing against the wind.
O sleepless child
leaving the screams in a pool of tears
on the pillow puffed and ruffed
with the him that is his own coming.
These are the mercy hours
where luck would shut the lids
and shine the moon on silver eyes,
and hidden from the crying vein,
they wait through morning hours
to the rising of a sadder hymn
and the ringing of a sadder still refrain.
O liberating key
that now unlocks the darker room.
The rust retreats
the nightmare of the midnight hour,
the light defeats
the deeper dream
from which some angel said you would arise.
You are touched from on high,
and twitching in the new sun,
you sigh for a new moment.
O incandescent day
where you survive one more night,
and one more dawn says,
you are not beaten,
you are not defeated
or tossed upon the dry bones
of the reaper of dreams.”
O rise again, and reign!