Morning’s eye watches yon tower of church,
setting warm rays on her high window perch.
Imprisoned by prayers and secrets well kept,
she stares through the noon-day with many tears wept.
A fantasy eve of mid-summer, restrained,
to languish within, to stark halls constrained.
Fire-haired princess of youth captivate,
dreaming of saviors which come not too late.
I watch from seclusion, confusion of trees,
a mottled illusion caught up by the breeze
which carry the hillside’s flowers and herbs
in scented commotion combining with hers.
I wait for the sun to fall overhead
and fold back the down of her west crimson bed,
Awaken companions I’ve need to fulfill
The task undertaken? A quest up yon hill.
A fair purse of gold he will pay for her hand
if taken from tower into his rich land.
He’ll bind her to keeping a-right his great hall.
He has yet to learn cells consist of four walls.
A handmaid, or mistress, a slave, or a wife!
What could be worse than abandoned by life?
Would I still be a man if completely alone,
or track like a beast on the land that I roam?
Into the landscape I blend with a yawn,
blending with meadow and moat and beyond
into a graveyard with draperies drawn,
commanding the shadows to rush me along.
Weaving a mixture of dim light and dark
disguising my movement, no flicker, no spark,
suggesting my presence, revealing intent,
I slide with the shadows betraying no hint.
A spiraling stairway of lichen on block,
leading me upward and into her loft.
Alone on divan and in sultry repose
half-covered in satin the color of rose.
A twitch of red lips, faint flutter of lids,
a gossamer gown, ample curves scarcely hid,
shift my soft values to velvet from gold,
I cannot be trusted, or so I am told.
Unwrapped in moonbeams across portal’s sill
I take this woman from need into thrill.
Twined in her hair is a trace of old dust,
I’m wound in the clutch of a lush succubus.
Her power is on me, my will she would drain,
but I am a power by night and I gain,
with strenuous effort control of my lust,
turning the mood to silence and rust.
Fetal on flagstones, a demon unveiled,
a tool of the Dark Prince I’ve hammered and nailed.
This sumptuous chamber, a cage she’ll not leave,
Lightfinger’s shadow-play game she must grieve.
For dawn is a nemesis I must abate.
Will she remember, perhaps she will hate,
the sneak-thief who fled with her power in haste,
the thief in the night whose shadow she traced?
I ignite a lone candle to burn for my sins.
I’ve a passion for candles and will sin again.
Forgiveness is one thing myself, I must find
I’ll not find it here in this prison divine.
This vault of salvation has lock I can’t pick.
Abode of the humble in which I don’t fit.
A church should be sacred to creatures of light,
not subject to monsters who walk in the night
SS Matthews Barefoot Poetry