Anthology of dreams (drownedinwords) wrote, @ 2005-01-25 22:41:00

The Watcher on the Threshold

He is standing in the doorway
and his eyes are not my own
and he is waiting.

He is as familiar as my knuckles
when I was a child and gripped them
bloody white on the hilt of my sword
and knelt and preyed for strength
to do right in all things.

He is my weakness and he is
my pain and my egotism
and all the flatulence in between.

He was beside me when I wept
and when I knew the things I'd hoped for
were lost to me, and he had
his hand on my shoulder in the long night.

He is not a stranger to me, even now,
and he is not my death.

I will face him with a pure heart
and they will not sing of my undoing
in the halls of my shadow
but of the standint of my shield-arm,
and of the fire in my heart

through which I will walk
and tame
and take inside of me.

So I will digest his darkness with my stare.

And they will flee, these dragons
who wait in my empty mind, they
will flee as I capture him and make
his salt my own

As I am coming to him now
with my bloodshot eyes.
I am coming to him, where
he watches in the shadows.
I am coming to him, and I am
hungry, and I am brave.