a pendulum swinging over head
where have the mythic hours went?
the howls of the living dead
lament the days of isolation...
spent...
Keeper crept his fingers over brail
searching for as yet hidden way
as if some sacred holy grail
a path 'twixt night and day
and worlds so near and far apart
the structures of society
one ruled by head, and one by heart
and balance within piety
he'd searched the scrolls
he'd bent the mind
for time untold
but he could not find
any mention of the point in space
amid the pale divide
where to find the growing place
we tend to keep inside
at which one who dreams transcends
from one frame unto other
outlives the spleen that conflict lends
from father unto mother
Keeper kept his head in trembling hands
he had known despair before
he cursed the ever waning sands
the scratching at the door
then he stood and cast the scrolls away
threw candles at the walls
he raged against the numbered days
the wreak within the halls
and goblet's wine spilled free and red
across the ancient stones
his ravens circling at his head
harkened hymnals from unknown
quiet crept in shadow long
he did not wish to hear
in quiet resounds the truest song
that enters into ear
before he allowed himself once more to slip
into some state of sad
his ravens urged him then to flip
his humour unto glad
for that in life which went before
and lingers for a while
going in and out life's doors
but doing it in style
Keeper calmed himself and scratched his bum
then heard from shadow haunted gasp
as if ideas from styx had come
as yet beyond his grasp
then he noticed quite decidedly
absence of wine congealing at his feet
fell unto knees excitedly
and with hope once more replete
he said "there is a chamber 'neath this camera
with secrets held within
in death there's still a clamourer
still want to render din..."
