The Walls
6-2-08

The dark'ning walls close fast and tight on me; The stench of the cold grave my nostrils fills. The blackness of this room is all I see And to my very bones this dankness chills. I fear the tomb, I fear the Reaper's blade. I fear the walls still closing in on me. I fear the dark, the great beyond, the grave; I fear the judgment that I will receive. Relentlessly the walls keep closing in-- It's all that I can do just not to scream. I close my eyes, this battle I can't win. I simply pray it's all a horrid dream. When in despair I cannot even stand, I see a light and you give me your hand.

                       In my friend's and my story, Masks in Moonlight, one of our characters, Tavi, is a poet, and this is inserted into the story as her work. She's a fan of the pseudo-Shakespearean poet that several of my other recent poems were designed to be works of. That's why her works are sonnets in iambic pentameter. She's a bit claustrophobic; she hates small, dark places. It comes into the story very conveniently (probably because I wrote this poem specifically for that story point).

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