Cabin Fever
Wrapped in a blanket,
Warm as can be,
No thought to forsake it,
No breath can he see.
Snow won't stop jumping,
From the clouds to the ground,
Boughs won't stop thumping,
On the roof with a pound.
The snow makes it quiet,
Gentle, almost,
Though nothing is silent,
For our poor, frozen ghost.
He weeps and he shouts,
And he rattles his chain,
"Let me out, let me out!"
He screams, goes insane.
But the voices won't stop,
Nay, they grow louder,
As the devils on top,
Release deadly powder.
The ghost shuts his ears,
He bites on his tongue,
"Why God, oh why,
What have I done?"
No answer rings forth,
No lightning, no fire,
As the dead man looked up,
At his funeral pyre.
At the base sat a child,
Feet in the coals,
Hair white and wild,
Legs weak, like a foal's.
The voices all stopped,
Choirs holding breath,
As the ghost floated forward,
Enchanted in death.
The child looked up,
"Oh, how do you do,
are you here to find me,
and warm me up too?"
The ghost shook his head,
And said no with a grin,
"My very dear child,
You're free of sin."
"But what about you,"
The youth asked without fear,
"What did you do?"
The words pierced like a spear.
"I..." the ghost paused,
And looked all around,
At the open doors swinging,
And the lack of all sound.
He remembered the blood,
The rust-colored snow,
The fires, the burning,
They played like a show.
He remembered the hunt,
The thrill of his chase,
Anything, anything,
To get out of that place.
They had him surrounded,
The last of the men,
Quite a fine number,
Nine, maybe ten.
And then he was here,
With a child, alone,
His memory so sheer,
Mind dry as a bone.
The child was waiting,
For an answer, perhaps,
So the ghost looked around,
"They're all taking naps."
The ghost turned away,
And ran for his home,
And there would he stay,
In his torturous dome.