Room 163

In the vast underground room
the cat speeds through, himself scared;
alone, then, you walk by it:
alone, like thick image past,
the bearded man, the clerics,
you see. Them, hooded, leading
him towards a grim showcase
of torture machinery:
wood, russet and polished; ropes
thick, able to bite the bone;
promises strict & unfair.
In that blackness you walk past
a thought of abjuration;
then later, already out,
in your memory blossoms
a dream-thought, the voice of his
saying: a prelude to the night

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