You can go there.
It’s easy, really.
But once there, you
cannot tell anyone
what it was like.

An experience
must be felt in
order to be believed.
Otherwise it’s just
an idea in my head.

But like a horse
shying at shadows
some of us flee,
cantering away
when our time comes.

The setting sun
sings me to sleep,
the dark morning fog
welcomes a new day.
A new day to try.

And fail.

We cannot see it
without light, yet
the light itself casts
the fearful shadows.
So we hide from it.

What was it like?
You cannot tell me,
once you were there.
It’s easy, really.
Why can’t I do it?
Why can’t I?