"That is my wife... And this is what I wish to have... look at the difference! ... then judge me... and remember, with what judgement ye judge ye shall be judged!"

-- Jane Eyre


It was a cold autumn night,
When the sky is deprived of the waning moonlight,
The clock struck, the bell chimed,
You heard a most otherworldly cry.

Awakened, you rose up from the bed,
Surrounded by curtains rendered to a darkened red.
Holding a candle, and the key from the pocket,
Without a sound into the hall you went.

Under the guide of the flickering flame,
You walked the staircase, the saloons and the hall ways,
And the drawing room vacant of cheerful chats.
You scrambled, you quickened,
Running away from movements in the shadows,
The sensation of being followed.
The place kept a secret.
It lingered, it whispered,
Of a savage form with thick black hair,
And a red dress bright as fire.

But he assured you it was nothing more than a dream,
A feverish, delirious dream.
Wouldn’t it feel nice to hold his hands,
To be consoled by those very eyes, and say,
‘I will love you and live with you through life till death’?
It was just a dream, my timid little thing,
A creation of your pure imagination,
(Yes, that was the explanation,
As things were known to happen.)
You have exposed for too long under the moonlight.

It was not real, the dream was not real,
Neither were the seas and the mountains,
The country called England,
The fire of the white men’s Hell and their salvation.
The church bell rang and you said, ‘I do.’
You woke up and shouted when you jumped off the roof.

The clock struct two,
In the dark corridor like a stone you stood.
You passed the looking glass,
And saw the creature who haunted this place.

This was the story of another side.
There was always the other side.
(‘You are not feeling well,’ he said.
‘Madness runs deep in their family blood,’ they said.)
You came to become nothing to him,
A doll, a marionette,
A mad thing without feelings,
A disgrace to be kept secret,
There was only one way to escape this cage.

The clock struct at the dead of the night,
The hour of fatality to bring on the grand finale.
Holding a candle, and the key from her pocket,
Out of the attic without a sound you went.