THE AUTISTE'S LAMENT

I lit the lamps that's true but their flames burn low ... and sometimes it's years before I get back to some of them with paper to burn in their furnaces and ink to oil the fire and wine to wake the sentry ... and though I set them in clusters each to light a city some cities are dark on the horizon ... as dark as the citadel in the struggle for the throne and no way to tell who should sit there ... as you may tell however in this I suppose you are like me I worry more over the citadel than I do the lights on the horizon ... though those lights work their way back home or the citadel remains in the dark ... though I return with the fire and the light kindled by the letters I did not write I stand with the illumination behind me and do my part to block its being seen ... though my mouth and my heart will die without the warmth of the light I do what I can do to interfere ... to forget ... to keep the dark struggle at home in the dead of the night as dark and as dead as can be ... god help me is this my part