The wind is still
On this fire-side night
In a forest of sentinel pines.
The patterned sofa, the oriental carpet,
The antique oak furniture arranged tastefully
around the room,
Even the pillows, so carefully positioned
At my neck and back,
Give me no comfort.
And the flickering flames
Falling into restful embers
Bring me no peace.
I experience only
The listless fires
Of a dying imagination––
Fearing cold.
Fearing darkness.
The sounds of the clock-works
And the pendulum
Stir my soul to frenzy.
I am a prisoner
Of this chair,
This room,
This life,
With the tightening
Shackles of time around
My chest.
There is no freedom
Can be no rest.
There are so many worlds to conquer––
So little time.