The Cushion of The Years (Shield against Apollyon)

 

Tonight, at 51, With the duvet pulled up to my ears,

I will play myself to sleep,

With the cassette replacement,

Of the tape my mother bought for me,

To mark, at 15, my passing into a sort of infant maturity,

A bud that does not resemble but contain,

The bloom of tomorrow,

And it's foregone conclusions,

She tucked me in with words,

And self fulfilling prophecy,

"You're old enough now, to appreciate this"

She predicted.

Tonight, at 51, I tuck myself in.

And in putting on the cassette, I pull up the covers,

The padded cushion of the years,

I pull them over my head,

I kick fast to warm the bed,

Like I'm running home,

And I am 15, 

And the Shakespearean blanket of warmth,

Covers my ears,

And forms a barrier from my thoughts of the present,

A barrier for all the years that are out there,

I am home

And she is in the other room just feet away,

As near and as far as present day,

And for some reason, Apollyon, comforts me,

With his scathing enmity:

"I am an enemy to this prince,

I hate his person, his laws, and people,

I am come out on purpose to withstand thee!

Here will I spill thy very soul!"

And for all the spat out fury of the blow-hard,

And as dangerous as he is,

It gives me resolve,

To stay beneath the shield of sheets,

The field of sleeps,

Until my fears dissolve,

And the cushion of the years is thick

And thicker the more the years go by,

And I will burrow in that bed,

And shelter from Apollyon's cry