The Wee Hours

By RC Davis

A single candle burns upon its stand
The flame flickers bold in its singularity
Contents of corners remain a mystery
Sitting motionless in wingback comfort
I try not to breath too robust
For I wish to hear my thoughts
I want to catch the echoes in the abyss
Of a mind where there are no right angles
No place for them to stick, they bounce
From my lips they may escape, peculiar in the silence
I am alone in the presence of piano and sideboard
The lyre table remains silent in its deception
Furniture, does not good company make
Yet I am not truly alone
For now the moon is at the window
He presses his face against the glass and seeks me out
A voyeuristic orb, framed by jacquard and gold braid
I cannot look away, his pallor captivates
Finding me, he stabs with a radiant blade
But there is no pain, only the sensation of a gentle curiosity
I seem to bleed, a phosphorous stain expands and saturates
Spreading now, it flows out into the grass of the garden
Lighting the leaves of sentinel trees, making glowworms dance
A feathered spirit glides past in the brilliance
Its silence an example; be still