circumstances overwhelm.
Evaporating peace and hope
are just a wisp, then going, going
gone, and all the lights go out
inside the tunnel and it's dank
and dark and silent, but it's
not the silence of a quiet place
you've run to, some place that
you want to go again, with dappled
sunshine on a lake, bees buzzing
at a distance, open book there in your lap.
The tunnel's quiet as a tomb
and all you need, you think, you crave,
is just a voice. A hand would be
quite nicer, someone guiding,
someone sharing, someone with
a better sense of which way's out,
but just a voice would make the
difference, as a candle dissipates
the night. And so it comes, with
silliness and laughter, and you
actually remember that the gloom
is not your doing, that it's someone
else's tunnel, after all, and you
don't have to stay there, if you'd
rather not. Decide you're done,
and just that quickly, you can leave.
But maybe. Maybe you should
choose to stay awhile, can be
a voice there, maybe be a hand,
reminding someone else there
in the dark that light is just
ahead, around the corner to the right.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015
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