In a Windy Winter Night

On the heels of a day mundane,
   another night has put its feet --
'cause dies down every fire there is,
   and a chill replaces its heat.
   And left behind are some bones, some ashes
      of memories, and mere dark stains, --
   to be scattered in time by winds harsh, and
      washed away by years of incessant rains.

The night has brought the struggle back,
   to rein in my thoughts stray, however vain --
thoughts do come, what're they if not hungry lions,
   and its hard to stop'em, from coming out of their den.
   Trapped between the jaws of those beasts
      should I give up, be a prey, writhing, --
   or play a tyrant I must, kills his own subjects
      who, and doesn't even feel a thing?

And by the window, against the wall,
   lie the vast plains of my bed --
quiet and empty, it resembles a Pharsalus
   and surely its' perfectly made.
   Flee from the encounter I can,
      condemn myself if I just, to the chair, --
   But punish the innocent clay if I,
      the struggle will be anything but fair.

So I go to this bed of mine, seeking
   subsequent glories, comforts coveted --
under the blanket, lose if I were to,
   at least the conflict may stay veiled.
   And just about the time when I,
      having won, was to fall asleep, --
   appears is a dagger unseen, of cold,
      and slashes me repeatedly, deep.

Though the cuts were deep but no more
   than those piercing words of theirs(/*yours*/) can reach --
I canvass the surroundings of my room,
   for the probable point of breach.
   True, walls you can raise against your foes,
      but what fort can hold its head high, --
   when the traitors are the sentries themselves,
      and the words are just words, from a disguise.

A mere look around was all it costed,
   to find the window with a missing glass --
only a paper I had, I tried to paste, except,
   when bronze is the need, doesn't work a brass.
   Stubborn was I, and I persisted,
      another lesson was to be learned, --
   irritated, I completely opened the window
      though this is not what i had yearned.

And outside, blows such a cold wind,
   and persists the darkness stark --
shivering are the dogs, or have,
   some reasons beyond their bark.
   Unaware of this all, was a flutter of moths,
      overjoyed, as they had a perfect host, --
   singing and dancing in the dim light of
      a distant, and warm old lamppost.

Maybe it was the sublimity of the lamppost,
   I got all the warmth I needed --
I slipped into my bed again, and
   the cries of old wounds went unheeded.
   Quiet have become things now,
      maybe subsided has their pain, --
   but those dogs will howl again, unless,
      the warm light of a lamppost they gain.

And perhaps, the next night when it comes,
   the cold will remain as before, dense --
and unclear may remain the path,
   laid down for me to embark. --
   But I've hope, for my warm lamppost,
      and for things to reveal their sense,
   then free of my borrowed crutches at last,
      I won't be creeping, I will proudly walk.