Gossamer

For some of us, childhood only grants
a ghost of a chance, a gossamer
thread of truth and right in the midst
of the stony silent cave of our lives,
lined with dank walls dripping with empty
promises and forgotten dreams

In the cold and alone, leaning
against the hard walls that line
all we know of life, we must
ignore the dripping water, the formation
of the stalagmites. All movement
leads to more stagnance surrounding us.

We must close our eyes and hold
out our hands, feeling for the spiderweb
strand of hope, careful
neither to let it fall from our grasp,
nor to hold it too tightly, making
it snap, dropping the end

in the muck, losing, forever,the line
that spells freedom of the soul,
freedom from fear, freedom from
the desolation we see around us,
freedom from the isolation
that haunts us.

That single thread of truth holds
the promise of nights not lying
in stoic silence, afraid of the
boogeyman waiting to snatch
our dreams the second
they awaken

within our subconscious.  We must
hold that thread with brave tears
and trust that we will not always
feel alone
and not quite of this world.