“Charlie, Charlie,” the room about me cries,
so dim, so dried of life. He stands, I stand.
cabinets surround, closely. I brush my hand
against the brown oak wood.
Smelling of what is old and lost
forgotten, into the dusty air.
Doors open, doors close. “Are you alone”.
yet the darkness, it is an enemy
it holds my deed, for what I atone.
Oh, this dark room, tastes of dust.
A blade of light, so lost, so at home.
pierces my soul, this dusty grove.
This dusty air
drowned in respite,
surrounds the skin.
Hands on my arms
disarmed, I fall to the oak.

Feel the hands grasp me.
“Charlie, rise, Charlie, fall.”
Charlie rises and calls to see who speaks
That angel voice of silky dreams.

So dim, is this the waning light.
Is this the waning light?
Darkness will remain,
Every door; oak- remains closed.
“Are you alone”
“Not if you come, down from your throne.
Built of stone in this the dusty grove.”
No light comes, only a blade,
the covered glass holds all back.
Stained, red is the sunset,
Black is the dusty room.
Wet with dusty dread.
The cage of Charlie Stead
The pain unsaid.