Movement forces the weave apart, the tightly meshed threads

slackening as tension eases.

Tiny atoms of light converge to flow between,

illuminating the grimy faces of hope, destiny,

dreams of a better everything,

hungrily pressed

against the bars,

desperate for the light,

intent upon bleeding through

to the other side,

to bask in delicate golden light,

if for only a moment,

before the darkness returns with fear,

its fervent and lustful companion,

slavering in anticipation

at the end of a sturdy leash.

The moment is over;

the light fades;

hope is dashed upon the cold stone floor;

all the dreams of a better anything

pulsing out in time with the arrhythmic beating of a shattered heart.

There they all lay, lumps in the expanding blood pool,

clots of memory, small bits and large.

Dark ones and bright, all dying,

and nothing can save them.

The eyes of hope close as the light inside them blinks out.

Who can say what might have been?

And who would have the arrogance to try?

Gail Fulkerson

Dundurn, SK

30 June 2016


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