William August Kobs

My Cimmerian Closet

There's a place I go to
When the world isn't right,
When the black hounds of day
Start to put up a fight.

A place that's well hidden
And not easy to find,
Which lies at the center
Of the back of my mind.

This place is a closet,
A dream wanderer's realm,
Where all of my thoughts run
Like the scenes in a film.

I'm content to stay here
And just stare at the wall,
No matter what you say
I don't think it's too small.

Though you try to understand
What I see in my world,
Or know what I'm feeling
When my mind comes unfurled;

I don't think that you can
Grasp the depth of my pain,
Or realize the emotions
That wash over me like rain.

Here in this closet I
Make all my own choices,
I let no one direct me,
Not even the voices

Which abound in my head
As I lie in the dark,
Waiting to be taken
And play in their park.

These internal voices
Are no cause for alarm,
They comfort me nightly
Without any harm.

I think of them highly
As I would of a friend,
For when I am with them
I don't have to pretend

To be something more than
What I am, can't you see,
A man with a desire
To forever break free

From the ramshackle heart
That's been laid at my door,
And the black hounds of day
Always begging for more.

Is there anything I can say
To be rid of these vultures,
Who keep trying to change me
With their high-minded cultures.

I don't want to sound rude
Or speak out in jest,
So be gone all you vultures;
And to hell with the rest.

Copyright 2001 William August Kobs
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