In A House Beyond The Forest
In a house beyond the forest,
lived a man of spirit poorest
who penned stories of hate and war
in his dark room on the top floor.
Many years past, he locked his door
thinking the world he should ignore.
He showed his writings to no soul;
just kept writing without a goal.
Kept stock of each book on each shelf,
read Poe and Tolstoy by himself,
reread pages in dust covered,
trite tales of strife and scorned lovers.
Some things were passed under his door
Water, off'rings of food and more
newspaper clippings that he burned
for his care the world had not earned.
Footsteps in the hall he ignored,
even the rare knocks at his door;
those feeble taps were only rain
so quiet on his windowpane.
Snatched the food, ate as he wrote
within his four walls, shields, his moat.
Battles of blood, ships lost at sea-
wrote tales so dark to be set free.
Drank the water he was given,
tossed away pages he'd riven.
He stayed up late by candlelight,
window blinds closed, even at night.
He wrote each thought down