A Comforter

Still you come to me in the night 
Walking with bare feet whispering 
And still you force me to come round corners that could wait,
To face a minor premise I am avoiding. 

Still you draw me from the logic of time, 
Reasoning with knots and pieces 
Now that I have turned round corners that should wait,
To leave a minor premise I am enjoying. 

Still you push me down a busy street, 
Whispering of dead men talking, 
Until we come to corners that should meet 
Upon a minor premise I am trusting. 

Still I come to you in the night 
Wakened to a silken apron’s rustling, 
And still I end in corners that must wait 
To trap a minor premise I am hiding.