Poem: untitled

Something old that turned up when fumbling through my notebooks.

I don't think it's finished.  But some parts caught my attention enough, reading it after all this time, to make me keep it; and maybe it will grow.

Prince, our story's old:

you stalk your bony tower
choked with thorns, and dream
your un-sleep. 

I am that knight,

who would wake you, take your
fine, clean hand, lead you
from the narrow dark
into the bright, and watch you
blossom like a rose.

Visconti Tarot card, Venice 1600s, via Yale University