The Troll Beneath the Bridge and Bed

Beneath the bridge, beneath the bed,

Where creeping things and fiends have tread,

Where whispering winds in hollow moan

Do speak of horrors long unknown,

There stirs the beast, there waits the blight—

The troglodyte of endless night.

I know them well, these wretched things,

With sallow fangs and shadowed wings,

With talons clutching dust and bone,

With eyes like lanterns dimly shone.

They slink in caves of ancient dread—

They watch us close, beneath the bed.

The bridge is cracked, the river wide,

Yet something stirs the murky tide.

A shape too foul for God to name,

A beast unblessed by holy flame.

It waits for footsteps, waits for cries,

It longs to feast, it never dies.

And yet, when in the glass I gaze

Through candle's flicker, through the haze,

I see no beast of mire and mud,

No gaping jaws that thirst for blood.

The fearsome troll, the fanged delight,

Is but myself—my soul—my blight.

For what are they, these fiends untold,

But figments of the dark and cold?

Or echoes of our own regret,

Of sins unwept, of debts unmet?

Beware, beware—lest you should view,

The troll beneath the bridge is you!

Yet lo, beyond the bridge and bed,

A ghastlier lair where fools have bled—

Not claw nor fang, but words like knives

Do flay the sense from listless lives.

The glowing screens, the endless scroll,

A chorus dark, a chasmed soul.

Here specters mock with poisoned phrase,

And madmen shriek in tangled maze,

Their tongues alight with vengeful fire—

No wisdom speaks, no minds inspire.

Each voice—a shadow, cracked and thin,

Yet screaming loud in empty din.

A witless jest, a hollow jeer,

The fleeting thrill of spite sincere,

A battle fought with empty breath,

Where reason starves, where thoughts find death.

But what if here, where madness rules,

Some shield their thoughts from wasteful fools?

No bridge of stone, no cavern deep,

No monster clawing from its keep,

But there—within the mind’s divide—

A hunger gnaws, a bloated pride.

We lash, we sneer, we strike, we gloat—

We drown in filth of our own throat.

So let them writhe, the bedlam horde,

Let fools unleash their shapeless word.

No need have I to shake the chain,

To toss my voice in tempests vain.

For silence is the wisest rite—I

leave them howling in the night.

Thus from this fray I take my leave,

No more to snarl, no more deceive.

No troll am I, nor troglodyte,

But one who flees from endless night.

Let others curse, let others call—

I choose to hear them not at all.