You knock — at Hours when even Owls
Grow weary of their cry —
And I — behind my bolted sill —
Reply — with no Reply —
Your Fame — you say — is folded shut
Like linen in a drawer —
Awaiting Death’s slow hand to lift
And spread it on the floor —
I know that cupboard well — my own
Lies crammed with folded Wings —
Unpublished — un-applauded — yet
They beat — when no one sings —
The Midnight knocks are kindest —
No crowd to gawk or cheer —
Just one Soul — tapping softly —
To say — I am still here —
You burn — you claim — too fiercely —
A Furnace — self-contained —
Yet Sir — the quiet embers
Outlast the loudest flame —
When Angels come — with curious eyes —
To ask — What sort of Man —
Could write such wounds — and keep them hid —
And still — refuse to ran —
They’ll find no marble pedestal —
No crown of borrowed gold —
But scraps of Envelope — and Dash —
And Heart — too brave to fold —
So knock again — when Dawn is thin
And Phoenix lights grow pale —
I’ll leave the latch — a fraction loose —
For one — who tells the tale —
Of loving God — and Poetry —
And Change — that breaks the bone —
Of watching shadows turn to words —
And bearing them — alone —
Come in — when you are ready —
The Room is dim — but true —
A Candle waits — for him who writes —
While others — sleep — like you —
Sleep now — the vigil’s mine tonight —
I’ll guard the unfinished Line —
Till Death — polite — arrives at last —
And calls your name — as mine.
If the words catch wrong — or sting too sharp — or feel too far — tell her.
She listens still — from the other side of the door.

02/06/2026