The long, great shadow-bulk
Stretches black tentacles into the shivering hosts of stars.
Within, an ancient ember dies,
And dying, rolls a dull, iron note
Like the ghost-horn from a vacant lighthouse
Groaning to the spirits and the fog.
A world of darkness turns on its axis,
For the eyes of the those who haunt the keep within
Are sightless white marbles
Too hard for tears,
And the chronic silence has deafened them
Until they hear nothing but their own
Pallid thoughts.

And what of their thoughts?…

Who am I?
And that's fine, I guess,
But what I really wanted to know is…
Who are you?

Who are you with your
Cool comforts, your cold charities,
And the unquenchable thirst of your
Boundless millions?

Who are you with your
Laughing, chattering, earnest plodding,
Plotting, striving, suffering, dying,
Making love and war,
Gathering the wisdom of the ages
To worship or scorn,
Putting up cities, tearing them down,
Breathing and seething,
Panting out your hopes and ecstasies,
Howling at your griefs and longings,
Chanting the old karma
The infinite cycle of being?
Who are you?

I walk alone in dreams
Down streets deserted or crowded with your
Faceless walkers.
I know myself:
A spider spinning tired threads
Between glittering piles of brick and steel,
The landscape of urban Ice-Age,
Hoping to catch something or someone
As the masses below pour in sluggish streams
Through concrete canyons and asphalt lakes,
And the Spirit of the Times
Chatters in pop music, neon, and billboards.

I spin words from memories
And the broken things that catch in my web.
My hungers I know intimately
And often with pain…

I believe in my heart that it is for you I hunger
Yet I know you not
And I'm not sure you mean me well.

Too often I have found that what I draw near
And what approaches
Puts the chill in my veins,
So I sit and wait,
Plying my threads,
Lost in shadow and dreams.

George Chadderdon © 2001