Walking Through the Ruins
The day is grey, purposeful;
It is as if each toppled stone,
Thrown askew by some un-named 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 clumsily 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 a
Myriad of colours once 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 have left behind
May mark the path for others
If they choose to take it.
We may not pass this way again.
Perhaps we will wash our cuts in the River
While we look back at the ruins,
Rising, finally, to walk along the banks.
Perhaps...But I am tired, and the cool
Mud of the river bank soothes my wounds.
What will soothe my lost and bleeding dreams?
© Anne 2009
