The Heir of this Knight

the air on this night
was thicker than usual.

the panic was like a fever
that wouldn’t break
and kept trying to raise its peak.

eventually
it broke
with a warm
sultry sweat.

the manufactured vortex
was doing just enough
to sustain the frail
fragile window of comfort.

a delirium trigger
condescending
reality
out there.

every ache was a memory
of some hurt I had once inflicted;

every one unintended,
but every one easily avoidable.

every one I want to amend,
every one I’m not sure if I can.

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the fever’s aftermath lingered
for a few minutes.

you descended from your cloud
to bring me solace.

solely to bring me solace.

there has never been an encounter
with this goddess that didn’t cure me.

every hopeless winter
with dreary dark gray
and cold bitter death

is at once a virgin sky
that sets fire to
the wretchedness of my nightly deaths.