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 all alone, leaning

Against the hard walls that line

All we know of life, we must

Ignore the dripping water, the formation

Of the staligmites.  All movement

Leads to  stagnance all around 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 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 we 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.