I walked where evening held its breath
Beneath a lid of cloud,
And every step rang hollowed out
As though the dark were loud.
The lamps withdrew their timid eyes,
The road forgot my name,
And memories, like tethered birds,
Beat wings of ash and flame.
A whisper clung unto my coat
Like frost that would not flee;
It spoke of things half-lived, half-lost,
And what was left of me.
The walls grew tall with listening ears,
The hours learned to stare;
Time limped along with broken knees
And would not go elsewhere.
I thought the night a simple thing,
A pause before the dawn;
But gloom, once welcomed as a guest,
Sat down and lingered on.
It poured its ink in every thought,
It stitched my breath with dread,
Till even hope, that reckless child,
Lay quiet as the dead.
Yet still my heart, a stubborn drum,
Kept tapping soft and slow;
It would not break, it would not hush,
Though drowned in undertow.
For darkness, though it claims the eyes,
Cannot unteach the light;
It only proves how deeply seen
The soul must be, by night.
So let the shadows crowd my days
And press me, close and near;
I walk them now with measured steps,
No longer ruled by fear.
For gloom is but a borrowed cloak
The living sometimes wear,
And dawn, though late and limping too,
Still finds us… standing there.