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The Darkened Room ©

Gordon Fjaelberg
Bridgend, Wales
1977

The door creaks open
And in I go,
The darkened room
Does nothing show.
My feet tread wary
The floor-boards old,
No fire-place,
This room is cold
As does befit
The tragedy
Of times long lost
From memory.

Upon these boards
Long years ago
A murderer walked,
Though far more slow
So not to wake
The child so young
Who'd caused no harm
To heart nor man.

Here, in this corner,
slept the child,
The full moon lit
His face so mild.
Yet still he slept
Full unaware
Of the coming deed
Beyond compare.
What motives dark
Could have propelled
The perpetrator
Thus compelled?
None shall know,
For who can gauge
What fuels anger
To such fell rage?

A leap,
A lunge,
A scream;
A death!
Alarms
And shouts,
A running form;
A scuffle, blows,
And the murderer falls.
The father has arrived,
But far too late
To save his only child.

I close the door
Upon this darkened room;
I leave it to the cobwebs
And the ghosts of ages gone.


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