“So, prisoner at the bar, to what do you stand accused?”
“For the guillotine or hangman’s noose. I make my plea for liberty.
The road was never narrow. To he who made it straight.
She married me at the gates of heaven.
Now that mercurial shroud covers me,
ghostly as a widow’s shroud.
The caves were long and dark,
the peaks stark,
the vales low.
Those guileless branches,
olive scented, cut me to the quick.
My blood ran cold as rain,
in the circle once again.
Vicious termites gather prey,
while I seek happiness, a wounded mortal,
an injured fey being,
hunted by uncertainty, fear
attacks me, violated, eyes dilated.
I turn the key, will never walk alone again.
Now with her by my side,
my spirit guide’s swift retreat,
my earthly body in a heap,
so I seek return again.”