Unsaid

Here are the gates.

Journey’s end or journeys start?

Abandon hope or hope with abandon?

Here, then, are the gates.

A thread of black binds my tongue. Scarlet tendrils encase my hope. The thoughts that cannot be thought wait here. Unspoken words echo through intimate places. The unheld hand traces my lifeline with bemusement.

Finger to lips. Shhhh.

The moment of recognition.

Lightning strikes, blinding the heart and rending the soul. Afterwards the thunder rumbles on, dissipating against the broken rocks of desire and misshapen hills of fear – forever falling murmur. The unspoken dissolves into dust. Pilgrims to some promised land will one day wipe it from their boots.

The entwined mind traces its chaotic path across the page, skittering from this to that. Arcing toward the question before sliding again away. Eros walks the lonely halls of hope while Pathos contemplates the highest window. Persephone picks black roses for the table.

The nameless you who stalks these words, who walks a world beyond my ken – raven perched on my windowsill a moment, stranger that walked with me awhile.

What, then, of you?

It is not for me to see that which is shown without invitation. Not mine to divine the offered understanding. Not mine to place my finger in the holes in the hands or on the whole of the soul.

Here, then, are the gates.