The Servant

The hours after midnight slowly unwind
upon my mind, an unceasing forbearance 
of the hypnotic vespers and whispers of the 
talebearing debauchery, alas, the lading embrace
of youth, like the wisp of light upon some butterfly’s 
wing, scramble amongst the bramble, subtleties and
vernaculars kite upon the darkness, sorrow always 
scales and stipes the nightfall like some avenging hunter,
I will not stand still and fight these higher demons, I cannot
slake their power, my alliance is this conformity of grief, I 
need no one’s aid, for you cannot see these ghosts, you can’t hear
their litanies, and you’ll never battle amongst any god and win, 
now, the linear of time captures every crumb of memory and 
enraptures every tangible misdeed with wile and chaw, this
voluminous overlay is my broken cross to bear alone, for welcoming 
this vituperation is my ascent to penance, but, death will end it and 
I’ll await to give the worms their feast because it’s better to serve someone
than to be their king. 

©️5/7/2020

  - John Hardesty