by Andrea Jones
I am in a beautiful garden.
|Flowers, how they feel so soft,
In my garden I am lost,
In a mass of yellow and green,
In and out and in between.
For hours, I can sit and stare,
But what is that, which I see there,
A shadow among the golden light,
The shadow ignited the feeling of fright.
I want to flee away from this place,
From this shadow, from the darkened face,
I stand up slowly to run, but as I turn,
There is something there, which makes me burn.
That strange shadow which I cannot take,
That frightful thing which I know and hate,
Is there, standing opposite me- my horrid foe,
Its darkness is the frightful fate, of which, too well, I know.
I do not wish to see it.
However, its presence I cannot deny,
It tortures me and teases me,
As if it were the spider and I the fly.
It is this dream which haunts me,
This dream which stalks me now,
I have waited for it, yet am not ready,
I clench my fists, holding my glare steady.
I stare straight at the darkness,
It haunts me in my dreams, this banshee,
Shall I name this horrid thing,
So you can know it with me?
Yes, I shall, the dark looms near,
It creeps beneath my eyes,
I have waited for it to consume me,
But, I know, even if I was allowed to wait,
For 100 years or so,
There is no time to be ready to,
No time to be ready to go.
So, as the darkness clouds my vision, as I stare into the abyss,
As my bones grow weak and my skin grows cold, I will finish at this,
Let me tell you, one final thing, my dear,
Death is this darkness which I fear.