Walking Through the Ruins

Walking Through the Ruins

The day is grey, purposeful, and
It is as if each toppled stone,
Thrown askew by some unnamed Source,
Murmurs a fragment of the story.

One tells of bright new laughter,
While another tells of a dark, unfamiliar place.
One is shattered from the anger;
Another is partially patched together with forgiveness.

Another stone catches the dew,
As if remembering the tears;
Yet another leans upward, crookedly,
As if looking for the Sun which never appears.

The fragile glass panes of the windows
Are long ago gone, leaving
Only gaping holes where once a
Myriad of colours  danced through.

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
We have made ourselves, until we find the door.

The blood we left behind
May mark the path for others
If they choose to take it.
We will not pass this way again.

We will wash our cuts in the River
While we look back at the ruins,
Rising, finally, to walk along the banks,
Wondering where the stream will lead us.

© Anne 2009