Sleeping on unanswered prayers
There’s hope at the death of light
So we pray for night to open our sight
To our plight
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Before my eyes, a door is arranged from shadows—crafted of rich yew wood, inviting yet pressuring simultaneously—and I am hesitant to make contact with the brass knob and fall through to new shadows. I never do know if I can stomach mysteries that approach with such ease. Although I have to know what's there and when I look behind me, no candle beckons. I may hope the door will lock behind me. I know I have no key to return but perhaps one will glisten in the fog for me and I'll be allowed to open more yew wood doors on the other side.
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Comments (3)
This was so full of hope. Loved your poem!
This feels so hauntingly familiar, like a representation of my heart in soul in but a few words.
Photo made me hungry