It is a sweet malaise; whether ill with grace from temperament
upraised in pleasing sufferance the pace is always easy.
She sleeps soundest after dawn – swaddled in a bounty
free of melancholy dreams, while he awakes in wide-eyed
wonderment. Day begins beyond her tight closed lids; there
is no less respect enacting ire of early-morning Gods, no
fire benign that’s blessed to burn the more intense – yet all
repealed in selfless acts of penance meant to grant surcease.
And she is freed of morning’s brace in gathered shards of sun,
afloat beyond this timeless space, seduced as one with love’s
embrace, at peace within a ceaseless charm. While he fights
demons come to claim her soul for antique night, sprites who
prey on broken sleep – let her rest and leave her be, he says,
just see in me that thus her faith shall ever be repaid.
© 18 January 2008, I. D. Carswell
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