By allowing her to leave in haste
and miss the signal of fate’s consequence,
I wrestle with this fumed moment…and
as knuckled hands tighten, my quest
for closure suffocates a hallway.
Backdoor lightly opens…the shadow- woman
rushes down down iron stairways.
I clutch those quivering hands upon rails...
her sweat mixed with tears grinding on my arms,
while I taste its pain, smell its despair.
The pungent flavour reeks of hidden sins,
of untold confessions trapped within
hardened pores: I wail, she wails
on the steep floor...
and we holler again. This need to open
what is locked from chains revolts me.
Afraid , I let go plugging the knob
which could finally release my false self.
Craig Cornish's Contest
The Fourth Floor of Nowhere
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2020