THROUGH THE PANES DARKLY

THROUGH THE PANES DARKLY

Through the panes darkly,
I see remnants of a life,
My finger driven dusty
O'er the unkempt windowsill.

Through the panes darkly
Seeps a weak, withered light,
Greedy and bloated,
Having drunk all its fill.

And in the basement gloomy,
Where the ghosts still creep,
Your apparition comes and goes,
Wreaks havoc with my sleep.

Like a sharp wooden stake,
Run deep through the vampire's chest,
You suck the life from out the air
With your acrid winter breath,
Through the panes darkly,
I trace the subtle hand of Death. 

I pray for the days when my feet
Did not flail and falter,
And lay a futile sacrifice
On the steps of this sacred altar.

A prayer for relief, from the depths of belief.
Alive and well, rescued alas, from a renegade hell.
In the churchyard down the alleyway,
I hear the tolling bell.

Through the panes darkly,
Through the sand and the sod,
I hopelessly seek for the footprints of God.

But I find not an inkling, a clue or a trace,
Through the panes darkly,
In this perilous place.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED