The stubborn whitewashed walls
Of my old mind’s house cling to me: I must ride.
Lead me forth dubiously, dangerously, undecided and undaunted.
I will be Mr. Grey-No-More beside you,
Bonfiring the false oldness of mockery.
You! In your ramshackle armour,
Batter my mind with your outworn words,
And never worn shall your welcome be.
Make me mad as you are mad,
Inflict your ramblings on my senses,
For I cannot see giants as clearly as I must,
And enchantment flees my approach like some wild thing,
When I would rather romp with it.
Enfeeble my arms , and let life bruise me in passing:
The rough-and-tumble of reality has yet to rattle
My skeptic, armoured heart.
I wonder as I wander through the fields of my thoughts,
Marveling at the holes left behind
In the windmills of my mind.
Gleam-black beetles crinkle over the night-sidewalk
Seeking my brown shoes for shelter
From the orange light-throb.
The night is a sound-slate, black with silence
Ready to be filled with psalms
And the joy of sheer isness.
Measured step by purposed tread,
I wander home
Through fog and silent streets.
Echo claps back my shoebeat,
A pulse in the solitude.
I accompany myself.
Haydn rises to my beetle-audience.
I wonder if they hear me,
I wonder if later they will dance
As heaven’s music sinks into their tiny brains.