Written Dec. 7, 1997

This poem was inspired by two seperate dreams, seperated by several weeks

Who is this image resting
in my eyes?
What does she say to me when I'm sleeping?
Farther in darkness than I'll ever know
Taunting, taunting, calling me, come

I have no words to explain
what this siren does inside me
Creation of a hope, a desire
A wonder I can't see
I wait and watch her in safety

What creation is possible
with eyes such as these?
What lives could be born and succored?
Am I never to feel the image of her
Resting in my eyes?

I am haunted, haunted
by her anonymity
She speaks of desire and of flames
Of hunger and pains I don't know how to feel
I can only wonder

Alluring in her crouch behind a tree
she stares at a house
Empty, cold and barren,
Like a hunting tiger, she eyes her prey
Then springs up to slink toward the house

I follow after, follow her call
her dark form moving fast
She searches for a secret to tell only me
I hope to forget, in silent protest
Though I rush to the arms of another injustice

She enters the door into darkness
with a quick glance behind
No need for more, she knows
A sense between us tells her
That I'm following behind

I enter alone and stand in the hall
unsure of myself
No sign of life, no one around
But a chill in the air
Creeps through my clothing

Tittering laughter echoes down the hall
A voice I recognize
And I follow the dark hallway
Till I find the source of my shame,
Of my yearning

I search in blindness
never really finding
Stumble and fall, and stand once more
Can I give up now
When I almost have hope?

Suddenly, burning deep in the stairwell
thirty stories underground
An inferno arises, lighting up the house
A horror within, the flames of my jury
I run from my shelter to safety

Out in the cool air, the night
with a constant, dark rain
I watch the house burn
The fire consumes without feeling
Saddened rain cannot stop it

With a roar and a shock, destruction came
While she sat in the closet
I finally called to her but she never came
Then the tauntings, the beckonings
Finally stopped

© Matthew Rutherford 1997