He clutched

the dagger of ambition,

the blade of final cut,

and crept forward

in the silence

and the darkness

of the night,

to the sticking point

of holding on or

the deathly

letting go

at the boundary

of doing or

not doing

where the arrow

of the compass

points his shifting

fatal arm

towards the

moment of decision

in this place

of blood and death,

this place

of going

or of coming

where the wolf

stands erect

waiting and wondering

as it seeks

it’s sleeping prey.


He saw his stealthy

shadow self

moving slowly

in the light

of the moon’s

silent watching,

of the moon’s

steady glow;

and he heard

the creak

and awful sounds

of the owl’s

fateful watch

that chilled his heart

and numbed

his soul

as his strode

on and in

to the waiting

sleepy body

behind the

heavy wooden door.