76 Cave of the Black Dog Part II

Part II

The ice here singes the soul

With the sizzle of a branding iron;

It is the hurt that begins

Before the mind has words to speak;

It is the hurt of hunted game;

It is the hurt of a life gone wrong,

The path wrongly taken,

The hurt of hope abandoned.

Where then the journey?  Where

Does the Captain lead when

The rudder hangs limp

Against the broken stern,

Waters invading the ship’s shattered hull?

Where then the journey?

What place for the weary traveller

When the path shows no light?

What place for the weary traveller,

Comrades torn from his side?

To the shadow-men I cry out –

Take me; take me then

To the cave of the black dog.

There I will stand numb by his side,

To gather the timbre of his howling voice

And make it my own; let me howl with him

Before the ichor ebbs from my soul.

I am sightless now, in the singing under-earth.

I walk until the Dirge of the hollows has

Drained me of strength,

Until I sit, huddled against fitful sleep,

Days measured by the chilled beat of memory.

I remember a time in my home when I could

Not move, when street-sound intruded

Like a storm through rattling shutters.

I remember many voices, and I tremble still.

They were voices I did not understand,

And I knew even then, there would

Always be voices I would not understand.

Tears fell, as they fall now – burning and itching.

I recall a man, one-eyed and bearded,

He stood by me in the large room, quiet.

We had no common tongue with which

To speak to one another.

But he stretched his burly arms,

Wrapping my wrists with steely fingers.

He lifted me from the floor, and the room

Spun.  I remember darkness.

I remember the blood-flow from my brain,

Heaviness in tingling feet, and flaming insects

Exploding in the growing blackness,

Thousands of tiny insects, their lives

Measured in the brightness of an instant.