To Henry David Thoreau
The night
Doesn’t have to speak
The room turned cold
Egotistic macabre
An aeon
Sequestered and
Being lonely on the bed
Shivery
Agitated nightmarish
Repulsive grim from a clock
That eyed a mascaron cheek
In the wall
Living in an errand not your country
Staring
The far distance
and the space of the eye through
Unbearable
Silence
The miles off star
Whose red light blear and blurry
Pause in reverie
Metaphorical air
And endless nudge of solitude
Stuttered
Wind peeked
Sidled
Fluttering between small crack
Down the door
Slithered
And traveled at mattress
Crept at the curtain
Drew near
And it leave hastily.
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