White screen, what will you now become?
Shall I lead you as you breathe
warm-ruby breath of past romance?
Or will cruel imps insist upon
another, silent scraping of the mind?
Will you dance a cradled waltz
through cherished dreams of yesterday?
Or will that two-faced sailor, memory,
tack headlong to the maw of casual misery?
Beware, that sleek and guileful
slayer of serenity:
he serves a cat-o'-nine-tails justice.
Can I avoid those anvil words?
Would they bruise your eager toes?
For I might travel down.
Down, deep enough for darkness;
dark enough for deepness.
Be still, white screen.
I might venture where shadows
silhouette the dead.
Where guilt rides, in triumph,
a paler horse than death.
bullyings of the conscience
ply their tiresome trade.
Too old to surprise;
too persistent to truly hurt.
No, there'll be no dancing;
So spread your snowy shawl
upon my peace,
and let me sleep.
Copyright © Jonathan French | Year Posted 2017