18th Dec prompt from Stutley Constable - A hidden door.
A hidden door
In the darkest of streets you could find anywhere,
is the darkest of criminal mastermind's lair.
The road is so narrow, the buildings so tall,
that the rays from the sun fail to reach it at all.
Each window is shuttered in wood, painted black,
and fitted so tightly not even a crack
allows any light to bring cheer to a room;
A permanent evil (and miserable) gloom.
This suits the inhabitant, kingpin of crime…
Yes…it suits the inhabitant…
most of the time.
~0~
The average citizen craves warmth and light
but also occasionally turns to the night,
to stories of ghosts, and the frisson of fear
found in graveyards, or alleys where shadows draw near;
the contrast twixt cheery goodwill, and a curse.
For criminal masterminds…quite the reverse…
~0~
So, chez Moriarty, a small hidden door
in his criminal mastermind bedroom, fifth floor,
leads onto a passageway, up thirteen stairs,
past a dungeon, skinned tigers and shot and stuffed bears,
to a hatch, like the door of a safe or bank vault,
which requires secret codes and three keys to unbolt.
Beyond it, a verdant oasis is seen,
with elegant furniture placed in between
a hot tub, a fire pit, a small swimming pool;
quite cosy in winter, in summer, quite cool,
with a view of the Thames, and the tower and the park
and the twinkling of lamplight and torch, when it's dark,
and a telescope next to a comfortable chair,
with a book to record all the bird life seen there.
~0~
So…once in a while, when the day's work is done,
( stealing or swindling, or killing someone),
Moriarty, immersed in dark deeds, sudden deaths,
slips up to the rooftop, and takes some deep breaths,
and swims a few laps, spots a skylark or two
enjoys the sun's warmth, lights a small barbecue,
and watches the city; the Thames' lazy flow,
the hustle and bustle of life far below.
~0
He's secure in the knowledge that no-one will know.
Not even his sidekick nor henchmen will know.
~0~
But, the warmth starts to rile him, it doesn't take long
for the plants to annoy him, the light to feel wrong.
He misses the damp and he misses the dark,
the shadows, the terrors, and even the stark
chill of his criminal mastermind bed.
So…turning his back, Moriarty instead
descends from the life up above, to the dead.
~0~
He lurks with the dimmest of candles, alone
in his chambers; their walls (and his heart) made of stone.
Moriarty, at peace,
in his cold comfort zone.
~0~