Art of Words

A Plagued Journey. (M.A)

A Plagued Journey

There is no warning rattle at the door 

nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer boards. 

Safe in the dark prison, I know that 

light slides over

the fingered work of a toothless 

woman in Pakistan.

Happy prints of

an invisible time are illumined. 

My mouth agape

rejects the solid air and

lungs hold. The invader takes 

direction and

seeps through the plaster walls. 

It is at my chamber, entering 

the keyhole, pushing

through the padding of the door. 

I cannot scream. A bone

of fear clogs my throat.

It is upon me. It is

sunrise, with Hope

its arrogant rider.

My mind, formerly quiescent

in its snug encasement, is strained

to look upon their rapturous visages, 

to let them enter even into me. 

I am forced

outside myself to

mount the light and ride joined with Hope.

Through all the bright hours 

I cling to expectation, until 

darkness comes to reclaim me

as its own. Hope fades, day is gone 

into its irredeemable place

and I am thrown back into the familiar 

bonds of disconsolation.

Gloom crawls around

lapping lasciviously

between my toes, at my ankles, 

and it sucks the strands of my 

hair. It forgives my heady 

fling with Hope. I am

joined again into its

greedy arms. 

Maya Angelou