Troubled Waters

All the men from back in town
begged of me to heed their warning
and not make my home in the middle of the wood.
They spoke of stories both childish and absurd
of previous folk who are no longer heard,
people like me who wished to escape
to a place of quiet, so that work could be done.
They spoke of a brook whose cold waters boil,
are black and poison the minds of men.
Some told of beasts, while others told of ghouls,
I laughed at the thought, in my mind called them fools,
But everyone refused to usher me in--
I would find my own way with a crudely drawn map
to a cabin that was built by a Sir Frances Edwin.
Decades ago, he disappeared without word,
some say his spirit is what darkened the waters
Regardless, one cold September day I packed up my things
and left without turning back.

After a two day walk, I arrive at days end,
to a roughly-built cabin, made from ancient pine.
I shrugged off the black water that dwelled in the yard
and I smile at the thought of a home to call mine.
Unpacking my books, my paper and my quill,
I make my new bed with weary legs and a waning mind,
sleep easily took hold, but only for a short time.

Naked tree branches drag themselves
across my bedroom window,
like steel against a sharpening stone.
And although there is not a soul to be found
the low, dull sound of approaching footsteps
echo through my shivering home.
These lost visitors never
find their way, and I wonder
how it is such a hard noise is made
against the damp grass outside.
The only greetings at my door
come from the cold Maine wind.

Even when the sun rises and
pours a river of light through
windows that stand taller than I,
it remains impossible to calm
the quiver that plagues my spine--
and I cannot retract the erect hair
on the back of my sore neck.
It is only in the daytime that I see
the restless waters of the brook
    that’s beginning to haunt me

When a fortnight passed and my liquor supply ran dry,
I was forced to seek a source of water
to quench the desert my body had become.
After a day of walking, searching for water not black,
I realized that my only choice was to sip from the boiling brook.
The ice-cold water stabbed my teeth,
and a sweat appeared on my brow;
by the time my stomachs capacity was reached,
a single black tooth fell from out of my skull.
Then began a coughing fit, in which my lungs
expelled a tar, blacker than the plague.
And so it was I doomed myself
to a fate far worse than death
by fulfilling my bodies basic needs;
my only regret is drinking the water
    of the brook that's been haunting me.

The dead timber sings a lonely tune,
the only music around to be heard,
by virtue of the birds who refuse to come near.
In a cabin in the forest that goes unbroken for miles
I expected to find neighborly wildlife friends,
but not even a rodent or a turkey has been seen,
and even the greenery has that grayish hue
associated with the dying and the dead.
The only sign of life that can be seen
is in the restless waters of the brook
    thats been haunting me.

And in my dreams the festering waters
cast out great tentacles into the sky,
they thrash in the light of a bright full moon
before plunging down unto my home.
They wrap themselves around my walls
like enormous fleshly chains
and drag me down, deep into its murky hell--
I only wish the devil were there
to take the chill from out of my bones.
I always wake moments before
I am finally able to see
what awaits at the bottom of the brook
    thats been haunting me.


Restless nights turn to gloomy days and my
bloodshot eyes begin to fall away.
Not even the summer-blue sky is able
to thaw my frozen skin.
Standing in the window,
robed in my warmest counterpane,
I blindly gaze out into the
unsettling waters beyond,
and although the branches of the trees
are as still as a corpse with severed knees,
the black-mirrored surface remains broken--
as if a storm of stones is passing overhead,
but my roof is unbroken and quiet, and
there is not a cloud to be seen.
I fain would think some cruel joke
being played in the depths of my mind,
and often I wonder if Sir Edwin shackled my feet
or why it is I feel so compelled
    to the brook that's been haunting me.
And alas!
    I’ll make the choice
to first submerge my feet to see
    if indeed there lies a beast
at the bottom of the brook
    that's been haunting me.