WJ:Asylum

"When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops

Poetry: Poems by Claire

Asylum

I close the door. I pray.

If I could pray the perfect house,

it would have doors that lock so firm

and I would have the only keys.

Just moments, then he calls.

And I would live alone, untouched.

There would be silence in my house,

such huge, vast quiet everywhere.

His footsteps at the door.

And no one would beg love from me,

or smiles from me, or pleasant talk;

so free to weep within my house.

His footsteps always there.

If I could pray the perfect house,

it would have doors that lock so firm

and I would live alone, untouched.

Copyright © 1995 Claire A. Schaeffer

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