Thee cloister of the damned.

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

gargoyle knocker,

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

4 thoughts on “Thee cloister of the damned.

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