Skip to main content

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


Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
32 comments
read the poem

SKYFALL

Skyfall... We continue to play along with an unnatural game that has serious consequences, soon we'll find ourselves enslaved without recourse to the system. (Is that true of local charades?) Yes. (Why can't we free ourselves from the system?) The madness of money. (It's not money, it's people, right?) It's both, money and us in tandem, thus assuring money's might and our adherance to its loudness. (Madness...) Indeed. © 2017 Mark Richard Prime
1 comment
read the poem

THE ROCK HOLDS

The rock holds the soil in and from the soil springs the tree, the green of LIFE rolling from the blue, rising to the occasion of itself. . “Be!”, the (H)eartH declares, “Be what you are!” . (We thought we were!) . (We think we are!) . “You are, but not freely, therefore, only a thought, and a thought without much thinking, as if you were scared into it.”, the (H)eartH added. . [a quietude begins, the truth being heard and heeded, grooving to the flow] ~ © 2017 Mark Richard Prime
Post a Comment
read the poem