Picture prompt can be found here
Lost somewhere in my darkest memories these doors
are made of ageing oak and the muted black of wormwood
edged with working iron bolts. Hanging, precariously from the left
a sheet of aged iron engraved by a diamond point, declares
‘This path is for the worthy few‘.
I know the notice well
I have been told it time and time again.
Among the devil’s soldiers
my spot is reserved by the blood of my sins
and the essence of those who have sinned with me.
Whispers of disdain circle my feet,
snaking round my ankles.
Blind eyes blink away disgrace
binding my wrists with barbed wire vines.
I am shackled within my rightful place
surrounded by dying souls that reach in and remove my heart
replacing it with a lump of blackest coal.
We are the cloistered nuns of the devil
our souls sold into Satan’s subservient slavery.
I feel the heavy shadow of concrete looming over me
the cloister of destruction caging us within
the walls of the damned.
Place coal under pressure and it will become a diamond,
a kaleidoscopic rainbow radiating light
into the darkest troves of my soul.
The spiteful vines of the blind cannot bind such light
as my shackles fall to the blood soaked ground.
I stand at those doors daily. Some days I turn the handle and peer
out into the light,
other days I remain within the cloister of the damned.
One day I will walk through
leaving them open as I go.
Karen Hayward ©2016