i am the chill severe papa down here in these colonies
our lives paradoxically skandanavian in its existential struggle
a harsh conceited man who has made and lost fortunes
father to an unlikely number of daughters each impossibly lovely
my coach has broken down in an enchanted forest
i am old but still vaguely handsome as i wander in the snow
years of city living have left me unprepared for the wilderness
i am a merchant and my ship of dreams has run aground
my horse disappeared into the darkness
my fortune was only in words and words became cheap
and i said something once and no one remembered
and i said something once and no one forgot
the trees are old and scarred they seem to sneer
the moon over head is neither here nor there
its place in the story unclear
the night is antiseptic and frozen
the sparkling stars are captured as if on velvet membrane black
a loud voice in my head shouts defiantly at the night
the other voices are quiet and waiting to see
and the forest squeezes itself in roots and in fronds
its thought given form in spirit which animates matter
an unknown past
a distant future
oh now for the warm bath the opium pipe the touch of woman
oh for the crisp sheets oh for the toast and jam and mulled wine
the night full of its beasts unseen but moving in undergrowth
the night full of traps and pits and rusty old hooks
the night full of whispers from the grave
the night full of its mists smelling faintly of some far-off laboratory
the night of thorn the night of claw
the night of snout the night of bone
expelled from time during some dismal spell
and now you merchant have wandered into the domain of Lunacy
who am the master of these lands and some great feline terror
and he will play with you in his long lit halls
and things will move of their own accord
a very bad dream
a long moment between lives
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