In the heart of every man there is a cave,
Cold and dark beyond reach of mortal arms.
The cold and dark leach out, and slowly take his life,
Crudely, sticking heart to bone, mind to stone,
Cloying but bitter to the tongue, it is not for tasting,
But we do it anyway.
Save for a few, who seem to stretch immortally,
Reaching out, approaching, then breaking in,
Moving always forward, though repelled, disgusted even,
And tired, so deadly worn; falling, but never lying for long,
In the stench and sting of the black lie,
Then they pound, alone.
The door, if ancient walls deserve the insult,
Seems motionless at first. Rock steady, roots go deep,
What else should they expect? An arch?
A gateway? A welcome? Not here.
But then, the shift, a nudge, the slightest tremor.
They’d been warned.
Stepping through, we cannot follow.
We can only surmise, wait, or perhaps find our own.
But I’ve heard, often enough by now, that the dark burns
Brighter than all the suns. Brighter than that word can even mean.
I would like to try, but I am afraid.
But so, it seems, were they.