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Behind the Silent Door

It comes into me with the wind. The door, having closed after me, stands now as my entrance to escape with me nestled safely behind it.

Behind my door I sense angers loss, unhappy chains rattling like a Kai-chilampu, fists pounding out their truth upon the skin like a drum with taut flesh for cover. I know I'm ready. I know I'm all set, waiting on the procession to finish throbbing. Her arms reach for the door with questions, I remind her that I’m here, my vault of tears. She stands with me in her great silence like a statue, her eyes filled with old spirits, hands reaching down to touch the path she knows I cannot walk alone.

Her answer spoke in the gust of air. The question no longer seemed relevant. We took the other’s hand with great care, her silence moved through me like worship. Her spirit comes into me with the breeze. The door handle begins to shudder, beckoning me through the unknowable veil where the lessons of love echo their flesh.


© 2011 by mark prime


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