The Corner

A corner withholding, a man to start

Will open his eyes, his soul and heart

With glass reflecting a compromised gaze

“Stay inside,” it says, “And count your days.”

Panes ill-equipped will provide still light

Turning his eyes, a diverted fight.

They rest silent, aging upon his shoulder

For through them, behind him, eyes grow older.

That candle-lit corner, aglow with earnest ardor,

Awakens recessed blood, now thicker than water.

His grasp encompasses boiling lead,

Fulfilling panes through words unsaid.

With pen he'll purge what tongue cannot,

Expelling sprites no longer sought.

And where page and print have merged to one,

His fingers unveil what hands have done.

The window again addresses soulful eyes,

“Venture out,” it says, “And lift absconded skies.”

With catalyst enlisted, his gaze turns out,

For his corner has retired, paired with his doubt.

And now that corner, empty of his wanderings

Awaits sure corrosion and failings.

For he is absent, carried out by purposed feet

And inch by storied inch, his steps outrun defeat.