Untitled Melancholy

[heslopian]

there have been time
when the veil has lifted,
and the dawn has swum -
like a reluctant shark
who knows it must feed soon,
but doesn't have the energy --
near to where I stand
on the rim of darkness,
the forest behind me
and a cliff edge before.

how long have I resisted
the hermit's tender song,
escaping as it does through
the dense mass of trees,
from where his tiny
wooden shack
resides in emptiness.

he is bored of solitude.
squirrel meat clutters his stove,
and where he carves them
on the kitchen table
two chairs stare back at him,
the second one made
on a desperate whim.

he could take care of me.
but the shadows which slash
his grim surroundings,
the abandoment of consciousness
and all morality, until perhaps
this inner home becomes
my breathing tomb,
terrifies my coward's soul.

thus, I stand on the edge
and examine the ships,
distant as they stride
the far horizon, wearing
leather shoes and
having careers,
and I treasure the hints
at an approaching dawn,
no matter how false,
or how scarce.