Being of strong mind, and capable thought;
another lesson is heaved into the bubbling
cauldron. Mixing race with culture, and
calling it class. Resulting in a flimsy
structure of many long centuries painfully
remembered.

There’s an ear shattering creak, as rusty
fulcrums scream under the weight, under
the burden of opening, no longer obstructing
the way.
Portraits dangle on walls without eyes;
the pictures appear appalling, appealing to
a morbid sense of understanding their
meaning, while the slippery remnants of
recollection leak their way through crevices
cut naturally by adaptation.
Cupped hands lead upward to sip the
awakening water, to quench sleeps
invasive thirst. Lips pursed in anticipation,
but finding nothing.

The hallways are long, narrow, and
ominous. The script sewn into the carpet
remains guiding, luring eyes to an inscription,
a proposition, a base formula, a base
acknowledgement of it’s traveler’s plight.

“To whom it may concern,
A ****** watches without being seen,
it’s the danger of being caught that makes it
so exotic, or so he thinks.”

Like an added post script
the construct continues,
“To whom it may concern,
…agitating festering wounds bleeds
one of incurable diseases, but open to the
elements infection is unavoidable,
is destiny.”

Breathing deep, the wall’s rows of names
seem to bicker with one another. The last
feeling passed over by the next, but so
goes memorials to the fallen.
Wonting hands laid upon recessed text, feeling
remorse, appreciating the context, but
portraits of humanities wars are better left
forgotten by promises of a brighter future,
darkened by the shadows of even more
visitors.
Each one feeling betrayed, their words
are anachronisms for life, each a piece of
memories that puzzle.
Reflections seen in pools of water, wine,
and blood. They set themselves at the table
of divine intervention, consecrating the partakers
in the challenges of wisdom, folly, and atrocity.
The wandering eye of fellowship focuses all
too often on the flock, not it’s proceedings,
and the floor reads,
“To whom it may concern,
Hubris is the elixir of apathetic fools
too self conscious to doubt their integrity,
and too mindful of appearance to check
their arrogance.”

Maybe they’re wrong, maybe constructing
theories of bigotry into philosophy is
democracy. The branches serve as perches
for vultures eyeing the fatigued mass of
flesh, hair, and fingernail. Lost in an unrelenting
question better left to the professors of entropy,
consumed and propagated, used to nourish
the whole, procuring fate.

The dimly lit corridor rises, then falls. An
immense sense of fear rifles through the body,
for the first fallen sojourner is found, clutching
tight to a book, as though the worst to come
was locked inside, locked within his grasp.
The books titled, “Fleeting Souls”
struck by irony, and fueled by suspicion
the first page reads,
“…and after me another will come to see,
but before death must be victory. In these dim
lights the only way out is the death of struggle; the
psyche’s want for identity.”

Vaulted ceilings, artistry slaved over for
centuries. Looking up, consuming the
craftsmanship he has no clue where he’s
going. The floor remains guiding, the
portraits appalling, but it’s the ceiling that seems
so supported, reminding him of his own
demons, his own hand crafted cages.
One foot after another, the journey’s long, and
sadly disappointing, but this is after all
a social ladder, a climb for status, a birth
right to die before witnessing the awe inspiring
vision life has procured for those whose hunger for
definition remains insatiable.

In the distance the door booms closed.
He grasps the past sojourner’s mind entrapment,
and takes another step forward.
Whispering to himself,
“I’m in here somewhere.”