A prayer

In the shadows of my heart,
lurking behind the specters
which guard me from you,
there sleeps a little light.

But what keeps us both apart,
like iron-clad fetters,
is the mere thought that you,
so dazzling and bright,

Might not even exist,
because God’s will might be
that I must live my life as a lonely recluse

So my soul, clenched like a fist,
screams and pleads with Destiny
in lofty clouds above
to let the specters loose.

And this tiny sleeping light,
which some men often call Hope,
seeks either the will of Fate
or my tongue’s deliverance

Thus each day is like a night
in which blindly I grope
for a key to the gate
in the mansion of Chance.