i live in a castle, of sorts

some of the towers

are composed

of glistening

glass

others of

liquid sunlight

and

printed pages

but i can't

stay in the

towers

instead

the hallways

are mine

and i'm

always

running

running

running

from the

darkness

that slithers

around

corners

and threatens

to consume

my soul

i'm a princess trapped in her own mind

The subtle warmth of fire waning in the hearth its barely staying.

Now how did it come to this? A grand old place now lacking bliss.

One little fire in this room fighting off a sense of gloom.

I poke the logs to invite just perhaps a little light.

I take a jab at crumbling bone hoping just to heat my home.

There are times I still hear laughter echoing throughout the rafter.

Parties and galas that I hosted and of which I surely boasted.

However faint that they may be, how I wish that I could see.

Oh I know how they would snicker, yell and fight and maybe bicker.

Seeing how far that I fell and the place in which I dwell.

I stand and shuffle to the drapes through which all my heat escapes.

No more light comes from these walls, just the Ivy as it crawls.

No more guests or conversations, no more lovely coronations.

Just decay of place forgotten, death for things that long since boughten.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of soul walking by the path of bole.

Hoping one day they may stop and take a rest upon the top.

Slowly I walk to that old chair, burden of weight too much too bear.

I can't remember when last I left. The feeling of adventure long bereft.

These four walls more prison than home. A sentence served for this old loam.

Once a sense of freedom and power, now grows dim in this late hour.

A shell for something went to and froe has seen best days come and go.

Perhaps its time leave this place. But what awaits me in that space.

Peace and love and hatred more? Or perhaps just but a bore.

Would this old castle be remembered or to nothin it be rendered.

All the happiness and pain, slowly flowing down the drain

A knock echoes from the door, a sound I thought id hear no more.

A light shining from under frame, I wonder where from whence it came.

"Who beckons me at this late hour? Can't you feel the fire sour?

Or is that maybe why you've come? To see what this man has become?"

I walk to the door and turn the handle. A rush of cold cuts through the bramble.

A fitting end to this old war. The fire waning evermore.