It is,
Banished has it been, from the dawns cool,
Taken from homely leaves and familar colour,
I am drained.
The worldly spirits igniting the outer in the skies,
With unnatural lights,
I can only sit back and wonder,
From where I watch.
He'll wander into view, a lonely figure on a hillside, by night.
He'll leak into my past so much as the future has hold of my days.
What is it,
That has kept me from them, that has led a gentle hand upon my shoulder,
When alone in the social rooms of days gone,
The slither of an ominous presence, my time, my walks,
My effort to go to a home, to settle.
It has swept by side,
I have seen the flicker in the lights,

My nights are only what he has in mind.
No! Not a relation to the old oak of the door,
Not a trickle of memory, the day passes to the next.
And then in the unconscious, they all look like he,
The all speak effortlessly as he.
Have you never the steady tread beside the demon?
Has there never been an ache in your pelvis,
In your bones?
A slithering fire, an ignited passion,
Has the urge to dampen been overwhelming,
Have you cried into nothing for whatever holds you back?

~
There then, is a strong scent of hay,
The salt-lick, the barrells of horsefeed and the cool of disgusting summer air.
A horizon deepening to red, the clouds few and scattered,
There is laughter of a young boy, missing teeth, albino to look to,
He disapears into the sinking sun,
Running into the horizon,
The hay tickles at my face, the tongue of a dog at my young legs.
The distance becomes ever hazy, the laughter lightening until I only imagine I am hearing it.
Beside me, a moist, dark mound begins to disturb the hay atop it,
It's skeletal back writhing and stretching outward,
The slime of it's skin reacting to the fresh air.
Movement does not take me, and I recall a dream in the shed.
Something like a tail swats about beneath the hay,
And a face is never seen.