The day is grey, purposeful, and
It is as if each toppled stone,
Thrown askew by some un-named Source,
Murmurs a fragment of the story.
One tells of a longing in the blood,
While another tells of a dark, unfamiliar place.
One is shattered from the lust;
Another is stained with the wound.
Another stone catches the dew,
As if remembering the quick pain;
Yet another leans upward, crookedly,
As if looking for the Sun which never appears.
The entrance is still apparent,
Marked by an unmistakeable keystone:
We know how, if not why,
We came through this door.
The way out remains a mystery,
Strewn as it is with so many fragments,
So many shards that we understand,
Instinctively, will make us bleed.
So we shut our eyes, feel our way
Along the path of least resistance,
Staggering at times in a Darkness
He has made for us, until we find the Moon.
The blood we left behind
May mark the path for others
If they choose to take it.
He is always here with the Dark.
© Anne Robinson 2009