The Threshold of Dread
In twilight's grasp where sirens bleed their hues,
A watercolor sky dissolves in rain.
The silence folds itself, a skin, a bruise.
As fragments of glass hang, suspended in pain.
*
The breathing door, a sentinel of fear,
Trembles at the edge of consciousness.
While ceramic tile stretches, cold and clear,
To infinity's frozen wilderness.
*
Beneath the desks, we curl like questions formed
But never asked, our shadows melting down.
Our bodies, question marks in darkness, warmed
By nothing, by our ragged clowns.
*
A hiss. The air splits open at the seam.
Then the heart's relentless roar,
While pale hands clutch at reality's dream,
And blue ghosts gallop past the window's shore.
*
The scrape of shoes, a spine without body and breath
A hallway leading nowhere and to all.
The doorknob turns, ambassador of death,
As something crosses heaven's wall.
*
Not monster, not savior, but something else,
A presence at the threshold of our dread.
The question mark that hangs when language fails,
When meaning drowns in what remains unsaid.
