Two bitten lips are evidence, I fear,
of ancient panic hidden in a well,
the bucket drawn when you are far from here,
and I must hold this precious citadel.
These aching shoulders are to be my guards,
which carry and preserve life in our home,
we set a place, and eat, and speak few words,
and clatter through the silence, quite alone.
The doors are bolted shut but I’m afraid
my love is broken into, undermined,
by Loneliness – a muscled retrograde,
who stalks me yet with purpose undefined.
I’ll close the curtains on declining light
and count his eerie footsteps through the night.