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A sorrowful wind cries
through dank dark corridors, whistling a lonely tune. Solemn
whispers blend with aching shivers in the air. My hand grazes
damp walls, charging tingling sensations along my fingertips.
,Musty scents impale my nose, thrusting nervous juice down
my throat. Slightly, I bend my neck, forcing the flow of air
over my burning brow.
Hunching at the end
of that fateful corridor, slept the nightmare of my dream.
My very own special prison, caged, resting, waiting to vault
back to life.
How do I leave such
squalor behind? By refusing that last disjointed step. Treasuring
relentless light, breaking me from the midnight place. Capturing
the light as my own, the hunkering presence withers, drying
up under my bright vigilance.
©1998, Christie
Benson
Writings
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