It lurks there, fitfully
around the corner of my mind
and will not show its face
like an April thunderfront, and
scarce aware that winter slipped away
a week ago behind a cloud of consciousness,
reluctantly occludes the air with nebulosity,
a shy Olympus in denial.
It moves within my chest, a void
creating sleep, denying it
as some sardonic phantom torture
just outside the room...
the stillness its ally...
the calm a faithless sanctuary,
death delayed as if my very breath were there
to test a faith that I no longer own.
What kind of ghost reality
will mock its own existence...
claim its victim with an objectivity
in doubt...a phantom court
without a charge to read,
a plaintiff unidentified?
Indeed, what kind of God
could graciously endow
his Adam in a garden home
so redolent with unseen sin
diffused before his unborn eyes?
I do not know. For though millenia
have passed, I'm only of hominidae,
my blueprint is not finished and
my paradisal masterwork
amorphous, cold beneath my touch,