The Walk Home

A walk home ...And there he lie in fetid squalor, Upon the chaise in vacant parlour... “What befell this young man?” a query. A sorrowful tale - tis quite dreary. Tricks! The superstitious mind doth play. Bested - a quite unfortunate way. Let it be warning for thy wary. The bell tolls twelve. Ah, tis mid of night! Begins this tale of perilous flight! **** Under a waning and gibbous moon. Two lovers embrace, their hearts in tune. But low! The time has come to depart. The unspoken story of his heart, Like the scent of rose and song of loon. Kissing hand of his hearts desire. His thoughts? - to be by bedside’s fire. A bid of “adieu” with a dons bow, Steps back a few, turns heel and strolls dow’ The road that leads to where he was birth’d. To lie, to rest, and dream of loves worth. Puts his head afloat like a ships’ prow. Shorter route taken to hurry home. A path, where woodland creatures roam. Cirrostratus shades the gibbous moon. The darken’d wood increases the gloom. Acorns fall and the rustle of leaves, Things brought about by a sudden breeze, Arises fear of impending doom. A snap of a twig!, an owls, who! “Who is there?” He calls, “Do I know you?” Pace is now hasten’d, legs moving quick! The forest floor - has gotten quite - thick? Alas! Cirrostratus falls away. But moonlight shows he hath gone astray. Gasp! In which direction must he pick? Internal compass, he’s no bearer. The way he chose - was to his error. Whilst he stumbles his way through the dark, Tries to think of thy love - in the park. But evil things climb into his head. Spirits and ghosts and creatures undead, Fiery fiends with wings of a lark. As swaying boughs sing their creaking song, His panick’d heart forces him along. In this wood he’d be wise not to dwell. Slipped on a rock, lost balance and fell. Flat into, the devils walking stick! The bushs’ thorny fingers that prick, Brought a nightmare of demons from hell. This wicked place he knows he must leave. From this hell - will there be no reprieve? A clearing ahead to his surprise! Unloved home of Victorian rise. He flees now without hesitation. Could it be, a place of salvation? But no! ‘Tis a place of his demise? He runs to the abandon’d dwelling. He thinks it safe - but there’s no telling. Clothes dirty, torn, and tatter’d. Body cut, bruised, and batter’d. Rightfully weary from his torment, And fully filthy from his time spent, In the wood where his mind was shatter’d. His reality hath come unwound. He spans the porch in a single bound. Broken windows, front door opened wide. No hesitation to hide inside. He finds his way into the parlour. In hopes, to wait out witching hour. His nerves on edge, the door slams behind! Turns his head, - comes to face a mirror. Dishevel’d form, his final terror! Horrid face reflects in pale moons light. He grasps his chest in that final fright. Arrested heart stopped! from terrors hold. And contribution from tales of old. Brought about this young mans blight! ...And there he lie in fetid squalor Upon the chaise in vacant parlour... ~J.D. Cromwell Aug. ‘19