© Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour
It draws me down the dark, narrow hallway.
My tiny feet stumble past the heat register,
skirt the bookcase to my left.
The friendly light to my right
fails to invite me in.
The door swings open its toothless mouth,
reaching its tongue towards
my hesitant frame.
Come, little one,
come see what I have to offer you.
There is no escape.
It is a dead-end room.
I linger just inside the cold wasteland.
The grey, rumpled landscape is
rugged against my tender skin.
The blank window offers no warmth.
The light above is dim.
I am frozen in time.
Only time will release me from this room.
“Out of the mountain of despair, a stone of hope.”
Martin Luther King, Jr.