Servitude

He’s waiting on the precipice of misadventure –

the heart beating scally-wag

cacophony from the fountains

of the trees and the 

river that hums soft

in the moonlight.

A gentle glow that passes over the rock faces

like it is hailing the beginning of a new time,

a space in which he is alive and

curdled in with my memories.

He will raise himself into the

Darkness,

suffer the deep congregation

peppered with strangers from an icy

Past.

His eyes will be the only thing

left to see and

we will call out,

with no guarantee of a 

Fatal reply.

He lets himself in,

unlocking the entryway like a chosen one,

pulled into brawls too civil for

the reprimand of a patient.

I will wait for his call and

hope to the skies that

the canopy will shelter his mind.

I will wait until the leaves fall at his feet.