Christopher Haywood Poet Rhyme

Notes About The Poem

The fragile boundary between reality and nightmare completely collapses around a woman trapped in her bed. 

Deeply Near Death

The bedside lamp casts a circle of warm light,
A tiny, fragile outpost against the night.
Its golden pool is all I dare to keep,
A desperate shield to push away from sleep.
For sleep brings back the wall and all its faces,
The grinning skulls, the empty, hollow places,
The pale, grey hands that stretch and pull and strain,
A phantom army built of ancient pain.
They do not speak, but scream within my mind,
Of terrifying things I cannot unbind.
My hands are clasped, my chest is tight with fear,
As if the very air itself will disappear.
A singular drop, a tear of crimson stain,
Betrays the silent, unrelenting pain.
My vision blurs, the room begins to spin,
As I am trapped with everything within.

One hour passes, perhaps it’s two or three,
A constant war with things I cannot see.
But then, I catch a flicker of the glass,
A subtle shifting as the moments pass.
An hourglass, held high within the grey,
Measures the hours of the fading day.
And in that sight, a memory begins to wake,
Of how a Grinding Gear can help to break.
The memory of toil and sweat and grime,
Of hands that learned to mold the face of time.
And though these faces on the wall remain,
I know that I can choose to break the chain.

My shallow breathing turns to steady air,
I dry the blood that lingers on my cheek.
The shadows stay, but I am standing there,
No longer helpless, silent, or so weak.
I pull the heavy quilt, step to the floor,
And turn to face the quiet in the room.
The lamp still burns beside the open door,
A small, brave light to scatter out the gloom.
The spectral fingers reach, but cannot touch;
They recede back into the cold, dark stone.
I take a breath and do not fear as much,
Knowing I can face the night alone.

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