The Huntsman. (is a spider)

The Huntsman. (is a spider)

The sweet-scented candle burns,

Flickering in the draft from

The window

Dark smoke curling up

Unto the ceiling

It would be easy to imagine

Esoteric circles forming

Intricate designs growing

Exponentially

The music on the radio playing

The Danse Macabre

Shadows in descent

Suffocating in the presence

Of fantasy

As the mood takes me

On a rhapsodic journey

Without moving

Lethargy is an enemy

Of progress

A dry mouth waiting for a drink

Reading an old book

About Freud

Slipping in and out of sleep

Wondering which reality

Is the dream

When the words seem to

Be read by somebody else

A small figure

Standing in the corner

Head bowed in supplication

Am I really alone

When the room is filled

With the idea of spiritual

Transgression

There is something about

The end of October

That transcends the everyday

As the candle splutters

Losing its power

Snuffed out

By its own inevitable decline

The smell of Sandalwood

With a hint of Vanilla

Lightens the mood

Brings me back to myself

And all is well enough

To remember

Once again

The Huntsman

High up on the wall

In the corner.