I do not haunt her from above or below,

But beneath the window sill, there,

A book rests on a table,

A marvel of maplewood and lace,

Wonderful to hold a candle,

Hold a book — Emerson even.

And perhaps it was there you were driven.

To rely on nature and watch grandpapa’s wrist

As he threw a branch across the water,

Was that just a prelude to the slaughter?

Or was it something deeper?

You stole both me and keeper.

Was it a chance a paradise?

Or just a throw of dice?

Dice you did not keep,

Yet, woe or weep, they were there,

A chance you would not take,

Either foe or friend would make,

But on a whim, you threw it.

Towards him!


~ by Benji on 15 October 2015.

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