Empty echoes of my footsteps
’round these halls resound, echo yet.
Steps leading not north, east, south, west.
Concentric circles, my defense.
These walls I’ve built around my heart
have been a fortress strong and dark.
Too long ‘neath forbidding ramparts,
not so lonely, as alone, apart.
My defenses are all in place,
built through years of toil, tears, pain.
My objective: hide my true face
from all others of Adam’s race.
A triple lock I placed upon
the entrance gates of hand-hewn stone.
The strongest armor did I don
to protect me, though war raged on.
Afraid? Not me — what could I fear?
“Prudence!” I reasoned, to prepare.
Naught shall move me through scores of years.
Immobile in my fortress here.
Nary an intruder could burst
these gates asunder. Wondrous Works!
Not a siege and not parching thirst
could drive me forth; come the worst.
But, alas! My plans did not foresee
a thing I thought could not have been.
All my defenses just fantasy.
To these thrice locked gates
you hold the key.
www.michaelraymond.name
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