Of Late

A stranger shrouded in a dark robe
Followed me home yesternight
And pulling his darkened cloak
Around his head he thickly asked,
Demanded an account of how I spend my time these days.

Unsuspicious of his masked visage
I began with haste to relate
How strange adventures had come
And swept me off into a myriad
Of thoughts and dreams that demanded of me answers I knew not.

"Though dark have been my dreams of late,"
I said, "I dream not upon my bed
But to seek the light at the end
Of this portal into the new world
Where rules are made only to be excepted and excused by merely mortal reason."

Whether he seemed satisfied
With my accounting for the seconds
And the hours I have not attempted
To tally while wandering in this strange
And familiar land, I know not, but he asked if I was satisfied.

Not wanting to anger his dismal personage
I whispered that I had no time
To be fraught with care or concern
Over such an ephemeral quest as satisfaction
When the untamed beast before me requires attention to every quiver of muscle and bone.