The House Of The Rising Sun

I found myself in an unknown place,
at an early hour, when I just woke.
It was not my home, nor did I remember
what brought me to this lonely space.
It was a forest, a deciduous kind,
not near my house, around which lived pine.
My bed clothes still clean from the last night’s wash,
I realized I had no watch.
But then soon, the sun began to rise.
I could see more clearly through my adjusted eyes.
I looked around for human life –
but I could find none, and so I turned.
Turned toward the eastern front,
toward the sun, toward where there could be someone.
With nothing to protect my feet, except my socks,
which offered no protective feat,
I wandered in the easterly direction,
until I stumbled upon a pool, and found by own reflection.
And beyond this pool, this tarn it could be called,
was a monstrous rubble, covered in moss and other lichen.
It looked like stone, maybe brick,
stuck with cement, but as I could see, it did not stick.
There was an air above the moss, one conceived so thick ’twas hard to move across.
But I did not want to move across, no, for in this air was a danger, a danger I could not know.
It struck me all over, not only on my body, but also in my private mind.
Pervading all my senses, rendering my heart defenseless.
I told myself I must not venture, not over this tarn and not over this direction.
I maintained a healthy distance, and ushered my way around, toward the eastern sun, where I knew hope could be found.
I knew not to look back, to never glance again. For that feeling of evil still rested on my skin.


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