Dream work

The blank-faced man came to call last night, 
and sat by the bed in my chair. 
His intent seemed not to be fright, 
and when I awoke he tousled my hair. 
 
He had no key, so I was surprised, 
but I didn’t know how to speak 
as he sat there with watery blue eyes 
and face so long and bleak. 
 
Fist resting on chin and elbow on knee 
he perched there without a word, 
but I feared what his mission might be, 
like Poe’s raven, that ominous bird. 
 
After awhile he arose and turned 
and left without revealing his scheme, 
and in me remained the question that burned, 
was he Devil, Death, or a dream?

The Blank-Faced Man