He turned the key in its lock,

Until it secured and came to a stop.

Then sought to climb the stairs well trodden,

But fate, on its wings, had not him forgotten.

The hour was late,

Well past three,

And the night so crisp,

All the stars he could see.

The moon had risen,

On its apex had hung,

And now it awaited,

The rising sun.

So many nights,

Had he looked to the heavens,

And sought to chart,

Where all the stars went.

Fascination still lingered,

And he dawdled about,

Upstairs were his papers,

That needed sorting out.

A voice on his shoulder,

Or maybe, in his head,

Made him turn and listen,

As he held his breath.

A strange force gripped him,

And held him tight,

And still the little voice whispered,

Into the night.

“Who’s there,” he demanded,

But to little avail,

As the strange voice whispered,

But with much more entail.

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Frozen with confusion,

And even more with doubt,

His sixth sense objected,

And reeled him about.

In front of him, and near him,

There came into sight,

Something imposing,

That made him feel fright.

Not since a child,

Could he remember it so,

And that to his memory,

Was a life time ago.

He felt with his hand,

More with reflex than dread,

That the force in front of him,

Was pulling him ahead.

The light on the corner,

And at the end of the street,

Threw eerie shadows of darkness,

That made vision, incomplete.

And there at the edge,

Where all became dark,

A spectral image,

Beckoned, with its hark.

“Michel,”

“Dear physician,”

“Dear scholar,”

“Dear friend,”

“I am here to assist you, to that end,”

Michel, answered as always,

In a moderate tone,

Without any judgment,

In ignorance grown.

“Come, let’s go in,”

“The hour is dim,”

“And the cock,”

“Still waits for dawn.”

“My eyes,”

“Cannot see,”

“And grow feeble with ease,”

“In the twilight of the morn.”

“Time will not wait,”

“Nor hesitate,”

“Be it beggar,”

“Pauper or king.”

“Soon first light,”

“Will give me respite,”

“And we can converse,”

“Once again.”

“Neigh,” said the voice,

“You have no choice,”

“And with me,”

“Shall you roam.”

“Nil, canst I wait,”

“Or hesitate,”

“The bill that now,”

“I collect on.”

And as he drew near,

There was no fear,

For the old man,

Had seen it so.

That life must depart,

Be it good or dark,

But always,

Solemn and alone.

“If death be your name,”

“How strange that you came,”

“Whilst I have sinew,”

“And bone.”

“My breath is still true,”

“And I cannot construe,”

“Of diseases,”

“I, have none.”

“My heart, by no chance,”

“Still beats its advance,”

“Given age,”

“And health’s good fortune,”

“Is this then to be?”

“And perchance, do I see,”

“Ill tidings,”

“Of thoughts, strange forces.”

And then with astound,

A fearful loud sound,

Redoubled in plight,

Interrupted the night.

And with a long wail,

Like a storm’s ragging gale,

Whose sound once imparted,

Searing men, cold hearted.

Thrice loudly so,

Like bells’ distant toll,

That once begotten,

Rebound and are forgotten.

And then from the night,

Whose stars shone so bright,

A heinous laughter,

Followed all ears thereafter.

Thence, from Michel’s room,

Dressed in slumber and gloom,

An evil black quill, cast asunder at will,

Lay broken and still, on the kerb’s little hill.

“Who could this be,”

“That yells so free,”

“To wake all the world,”

“Around him.”

“Can he be ill,”

“And should I instill,”

“The art,”

“To make him well again.”

The voice spake so,

And on Michel’s arm, did throw,

A hand of light,

One of angel’s own sight.

“Contrite and alone,”

“No family or home,”

“Possessed with a madness,”

“Of undying sadness.”

“Sickened with a hate,”

“No one could elate.”

“Or ever hope him,”

“To cure of.”

“His only true goal,”

“Adversity and loath,”

“Of which he festers,”

“Well enough.”

“Evil is his name,”

“Wicked and profane,”

“Driven by a heart,”

“Given to the black art.”

“Lucifer, dear brother,”

“Too late have you come,”

“All see you now,”

“Are riddles bar none.”

“I have seen them myself,”

“And rewritten in stealth,”

“Rhymed quatrains, of his workings,”

“And the order they were in.”

“Your shout of pain and shriek of ill,”

“Are they that thought to grab at will,”

“The pages yet of time unseen,”

“And the words to tell, when it has been.”

And then to Michel,

He turned and smiled,

And wrapped his wing,

Around him like a child.

“You cannot climb the stairs and see,”

“Your holy room, as you let it be.”

“Your body lies there, as hollow as husk,”

“Whose seed once given, returns to dust.”

“Let us go Nostradamus.”

“Away from here then,”

“Where our lord in heaven,”

“Awaits you, true friend.”