But For Being Lost

As black imbued black, so was rendered the pitch of darkness That befogged this godforsaken yard of graves - And too the dank, ‘til now forgotten chapel that Did little to grace these forlorn grounds. Yet here stood I, seemingly first to tread this weed-ridden soil Since times of yore when life had erstwhile blessed this land. But for being lost in solitude - as does a country wanderer - Would I not have happened across this morbid landscape. And though detail rendered barely visible to my naked eye – For desperately had the moon tried to break through this jet fog – A sense of something suffused the place. Was it those tormented spirits desperate for absolution, Or perhaps the gargoyles teasing me on whether they be of stone or living flesh? I was drawn to the oak door as it enticingly opened in passage for me. The organ called from down the nave and through the pale orange of unsteady light - that which could only be mustered from the few discoloured, moribund candles. Could I also hear a distant choir of stern voices, as if in effort to scold me? As I approached, those tarnished pipes came into view. Standing erect with gothic pride, they bore down on me with patronising air - Exaggerated by the disjointed sneering of minor chords, As if to state that insignificant I had henceforth no grant of solace. In answer, I steadied my rocking legs and racing mind to wonder of this scenario. And in doing so, I found myself waking from a cramped dream – Whence the message dawned: mine had been such a claustrophobic life. Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009 lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost