A millenary passed me by in the springhouse
Pentience, the major king of the jungle now crumpled with time has now become a mouse.
I roamed with the new friend, the mouse, aroung the house for places to gad.

Around noon, everyday, since lifetimes long gone by.
I prepare for a luncheon with no attendees as I watch the China kettle boiling.

The China Breaks, and comes undone in smithereens, very much like the sense which gives meaning to the man's anatomy.
Much to evoke some movement in the house unmoving like stone
Much to evoke some sense in my body which seemed to have turned cold.
But no, noting ever happens in the spronghouse.

I tried and left shouting, kicking, sulking and crying for a way out.
Repentant to have ever stepped inside the cursed house.
Expectant and desperate for a happening.
A tragedy, would be acceptable even a sanguinary, much welcomed.

But nothing ever happens in the springhouse, I think.
So I sing songs until dusk whispers its arrival.
I play, until dawn starts every village carnival.
Babies born, girls wedded, fields sown and harvested, what not has happened?
Yet, nothing ever happens in the springhouse.

Naturally, to pass this infinity
I came out in the garden, to water the flowers.
Sunflowers, Dahlias, Roses, Lilies, Poppies whatever you ask, just flourished here.
No wonder where they'd gone?
Where, where where?
Disappeared in the open air?

What left now?
Just Lillies of the Valley whom with I had established a friendly Amity.
But now they stood in my garden, steady on their feet, with clear intention, to sting, readily.

Oh then how I fled like rain from a draught.
Insicive came my revelation
about the mystery of my garden.
It must have been that cruel mouse who nibbled away, the happy flowers!
But I no longer care what destroyed the garden,
Isn't it waste to ponder on what is gone?

Pictures hanging askew had shown me several times, warriors full of fortitude winning wars of fire and ice, of lovers so dreamy any woman may be swooned, of pirates so notorious, they pointed and the diamond ladden ship would be theirs!
Any whimsical fancy you dream of!

But what are they really?
You'd carry out researches and theories of your own
Of scenes made from oils and paints.
But when the night sings of its reign, what are they really, a scene trapped in a frame
a wish of someone's desirous brain?

If you'd ask of faith
I think God is dead in the springhouse.
And if I'm wrong, then he maybe who preeps through the window.
Or I just maybe entirely wrong, and he may be a kind village man who passes me bread and wine but never can tresspass through the door.
I'll never really know.

And when night comes,
I seek for answers .
Or just a sagacious judgement to calm my insanity.
What was the builder's mistake in the making of this wicked house?
I think of this while the mouse climbs in my lap and I let it, finally accepting defeat.

But where would I get the judgement?
Why would I get it even?
And who there is to complain?
When my own hands twitch in the remembrance of the dust of the bricks, when I assembled and made my very own, my old springhouse?
© byhistoryfreak