Not Myself

For moonlight,

I did set away;

Down the garden path

to play.   

 

Past rose and climbing vine,

daisy and lonely pine,

I set off into the pitch

to find me piece of mind

 

Fields filled with frolicking phantoms

who come into my ear as disturbed leaves,

giving chase by lunar light

before vanishing as thieves.

 

What wight or specter follows

my person through the hollows

ever matching my stride with step,

following as Death unto the gallows?

 

Deeper in the dark,

sentinels rise as oak and yew,

and the first flakes of winter dreary,

fall soft as a kitten’s mew.

 

But by step-and-step,

I do determine

my night time stalker

be more than vermin.

 

Heavy is the heel

that makes mulch of autumn timber.

The thudding echo of un-careful feet

moving me to remember.

 

A time in a distant land,

in a forest filled with war,

I heard again the creeping tread

and recalled my pledge of never more.

 

I put foot before and again,

making haste through a hickory thicket.

The war was fresh once more

and I fled from what once was wicked.

 

No stealth did it exhibit.

It crashed and cursed the stars.

No matter where I hid,

its presence wasn’t far.

 

It happened of a sudden.

The forest it spit me out,

and I stared upon distant lights

hearing those distant shouts.

 

It came crashing from the woods,

causing a brave heart to quake and cower.

So, I hid inside a hole,

in water dark and sour.

 

He found me hiding there

dirty, sick, and tired

and offered me his hand

to pull me free the mire.

 

He swaddled me with blankets

this beast become a man,

and led me home once more

across the wintered land.

 

The nurses greeted me.

The doctors checked my health.

My dementia changes me.

Sometimes, I’m not myself.