The Castle of Otranto
What is a castle, but a vain attempt
to keep at bay a horror, dark, adverse,
that sniffs its way towards our flesh and bone?
It seeps through portals, leering with contempt
at battlements and barriers. The Curse
can find us, where we sleep, alone.
Rank weeds creep up, malodorous, unkempt:
a moaning wind weaves through them, to disperse
their evil seeds, unstoppable once sown.
Our crude carnality can fool us, tempt
a sense of something “out there”. This perverse
conception causes castles. Walls are thrown
around us. Though we toil on soil and stone,
the menace is internal – and our own.
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