Here midst this harrowing hour, I bear witness to tyranny of an unyielding dawn. That hellish orb now ‘dorned and crowned comes to strike this chamber with its undaunted furies!

Heavier, heavier his breaths strike, seething, gasping with a maddening desperation. Through that deathly shroud where he… I seek sanctuary… he tearing at that ghostly veil, churns with an appalling madness, though dragging himself from some abyssal grave, (where he still longs to slumber… and yet ever dreading that Wakeful Slumber) he claws forth that shallow tomb.

I rising to my feet, as he too would come to ascend, I strike my gaze unto my needled meditations; those fallowed meadows, rolling gently beneath veils of blue, drifting along the folds of those rolls of mounds where trees long since bore their harvest (yet bountiful with poise would each be) stray as mountains etch their shadow ‘gainst the horizon;- here I allow my mind to wander momentarily, to know such a sense of peace and the tranquility of its calm within my heart.

Would I long this fellow, whom I in my duties mind, to know such peace, to be still, to know such whispered charms;- yet would I hesitate, question this manner of peace that it shall come to manifest in itself, its realities, and all those mirrored shadows and their spectres of dreams straying to and fro from haunts of slumbering dreams where apparitions of morrows whispered in passing and those yet to be come to haunt this waking hour.

Stepping to the foot of the bed, clutching its cast iron rail, I stand.  Its familiar frame, cold to my touch while sentimental realities, their dreams now hollow chill my flesh, wakening within my being furies, they giving rise to rage that no mortal conception may begin to grasp; yet it is within such sense of betrayal and that sense of hopelessness that gives rise to such furies.

Once in innocence, in sweet, sweet innocence did I stare through the twining patterns woven of iron and brace, now would bars forge this hellish cage. No longer would it weave and spin gentle spells of memories that would be ever tender with laughter’s kind affections.

Slowly to him, he whom I in duties tend, I walk to him, with the pillow and its needled paradise as he gasps with bitter breaths of wind. Then upon him with my needled meditations, I press that pillow and painted vision upon his face, till at last his breath grows still, and comes to finally rest quiet within my embrace.

Who would I be, to judge, to commit such an act!  I would of be his blood, and this gentle, gentleman, who in frailty of his nature who would know only love; a man, whom I have come to love, even unto this terrible hour!–would he be my father, and I his daughter. Think me not to be cruel, for those hours that I came to tend to my father, those terrible hours that grew to be to days, and those days that in turn grew to be years… In love mad with sorrows I watched over him while all beauty and gentle strength of the man I knew slipped away, watching him become that frightful spectre, this ghost of a man that came to haunt him and I with hopeless desperation.

Judge me not in this matter, for I in court of men was found innocent, yet know this, this terrible hour, from which am I never to be free, for I relive it again and again and again, ever questioning my thoughts, the act and that deed!  Judge me not, for I in soul’s heart shall come to relive this hell, till that day when I too shall join him in this Slumbering Sleep where he awaits me with open arms.