The shadow grows, though deathly still,
In candlelight, weary of will.
On cavern walls, cold as a tomb,
Through mists of magic's sweet perfume.
An open book, an ageless lore…
Sightless eyes look beyond the fore
To glean clearly, from well wrought line
A glimpse of fate, if by design.
Wretched and frail, a shaking hand
Page by page avails Time's demand.
Hour by hour, withers away
As day turns night, as night turns day.
A soul long dead, searching for life;
A dream well fed, a loving wife
Eyes once beheld, a day long past…
Searching lifelong, for Time's recast.
A silver robe negligently
Would speak of forgone luxury.
Royal emblem about the breast,
A long forgotten regal crest.
The family scourge, the Prince of Pain,
Seeking a dream lost in the rain.
King next in line, honor pristine
Forwent to find who would be queen.
In dimming light sunken eyes tear.
Perhaps hope now gives way to fear.
Upon his neck the laughing breath
Of ‘er anticipating Death.
Closing the book, in mental sigh.
A pinched candle would glean goodbye.
Palm placed to book, a torn soul cries
O’er life mistook, closes his eyes.
*******
In pouring rain, walking alone,
A peasant's life, hers to atone;
A carriage close, she steps aside
As splash of mud does nil to pride.
But the horses stop, with a shout,
And there a stately man steps out.
Silver attire sets heart astir,
Why would this young Prince stop for her?
Michael Anderson
