four rats

The slow sweep of the day, Golem locked in
his hard chamber. Hundreds of years in
some kind of slumber for a few hours of
Pro-Semitic, bloodcurdling pleasure,
and then it's "Back to the cold, solid loneliness
for you, dear sir, yes, indeed!"

But even the last, lingering splinters of light,
and the naked promise of warmer breezes and
light rain, whispering "Spring" at Golem, 

nudging him 

in the direction of rebirth, are somehow waylaid,
slow to the call, its back groans in the morning.

The working world awaits, so no more is Golem hiding in the dark,
but walking silent and mournful to his desk job,
shadowed in the streets by four rats squeaking sentences at passersby,
knowing full-well that the age of mythic, ghostly apparitions
is at an end, ideals once beautiful are rotten,
and the coming Spring seems suffering
from a case of Mono.