In the Sky an Old Woman Lives

Brown leaves below my feet crumple with each step.
The overgrown grass spills onto the pavement,
The wind whistles through the leafless trees.
Hedges once neatly kept, now barren of green,
Devoid of any discernable shape.

Roots underneath spread a web of cracks,
Unto the paved surface up above.
Between these cracks and splits, pale weeds grow.
Untrodden and long grown they appear.

The metal gate to my right, all rusted and old.
Paint half scraped off; old scratches set in stone.
Rings of brown like sores of diseased,
Hinges creaking like wheezes of the sick.
The gate hangs slightly ajar, open to a path of stones.

The gate is connected to a wall on its left,
Long slides of old wood, paint faded and scraped.
Dead vines cling to the wall, wilted petals falling from buds.
Up the slides crawls a lone anole, weathered as the wood below.

Before me, past the gate and wall lays a door.
The black paint peeling way to the bleaching sun.
An ornate knob is attached to the door,
Gold giving way to the shining silver, losing its allure,
Where old hands turned it a thousand times before.

A cold wind blows through,
brushing against my pale skin.
My red scarf flaps in the wind, I plant my feet in the ground,
As to remain still its great blow.

In my ears it whispers,
I want to forget what it whimpers,
Yet, what it says still lingers.
It pulls a hair across my face with its fingers.
The wind so strong, my step it hinders.

After a moment of solemn respite,
I step forward despite what it says.
The long tan grass, slumped onto the pavement,
Folds beneath my now heavy step.

I reach the door, stood underneath a small overhang.
Large cobwebs strung from the roof to the doorframe,
Remains of creatures long since forsaken trapped in the net.
In the web a large spider rests, at peace,
Within its nest of old decay.

An old mail slot is cut into the door, about at eye height.
The hinges holding the iron cover rusted, long since turned.
Below the slot lay a round metal knocker, in theme with the rest.
Old and rusted, all the same.

A moment of thinking- is it not too late to turn back?
I let out a deep sigh and bow my heavy head.
Before my eyes drapes my hair, tangled and knotted.
Do I really have to be in this forgotten place?
Then I remember- the numbness that drove me mad.

The pain- and how it’s leave made me so glad.
With one great breath, I reach my hand to the knocker.
I can only wrap three fingers around the thin iron ring,
And I slowly tap against the door.
Something about the sound of knocking on the wood is wrong.

After a moment of silence, I hear rumbles from behind the door.
The sound of a deadbolt being slid out of its case,
The sound of a key turning in its lock.
The gold painted knob slowly turns,
Not in a smooth arc, but in stuttered leaps.

The hinges whine as the door swings inward,
And the smooth hiss of wind grows into a deafening roar.
My long and unkempt hair is thrown back, my scarf nearly takes flight,
And I step my right foot back, to stay in place.

The wind, no longer whispering to my ears,
Screams to me to go far away,
Because she is not what she appears,
She is the rot and decay.
She is the rot and decay.

The wind slows, and my hair rests on my shoulders,
My scarf settles, now a little looser than before.
And before me is a small, elderly woman,
Hair white and posture slouched.

Her face, warm and kind, is creased with age,
And wise from her years.
Her hair is tied into a thin white bun,
Around her neck hangs from a chain a locket,
As golden as her years.

She wears a bathrobe, with birds and flowers printed in furs.
The wrinkles around her eyes draw my gaze into hers,
Nothing I can put my finger on, but something is wrong.
As if nothing is behind those eyes.

Or perhaps, too many things are.

She asks me if I’m ready dear,
And reminds me why I’m here.
To step through the door she implores,
To sip some tea and rest my sores.
I falter, do I dare to step, is my head clear?

Darling, it’s time to go.
You did choose this, you know?
This isn’t something you can forgo,
Darling, it’s time to go.

Darling, you know it’s time,
You must leave them all behind.
You chose this, don’t forget.
Oh dear, your cheeks are wet,
Come inside dear and unwind.

Leave them all behind-
Leave who behind?
I close my eyes,
I drop to my knees.

Pebbles on the unswept walk dig in my knees,
Scenes flash before me, coming back to me.
I remember why I wear this ratty scarf,
I remember why I feel so numb,
I remember why I’m here.

She stands in the doorway,
Looming over my broken self,
She extends a wrinkly hand,
Yet I dare not take it.

The edges of my vision darken,
It’s as if I look down from the eye of a storm.
The cyclone spins, the eye contracts.
Voices scream my name; one rings louder than the rest.
They scream for my attention, as if some great contest.

They tell me to come back,
Yet I don’t know where.
The old woman takes me by the hand,
And stands me off the overgrown ground.

Come in dear,
It’s safe in here.
Take off your scarf and cap,
And unsling your heavy knapsack.
Have a cup, you’re tired and it’s clear.

Miss, I can’t see in,
The door- it’s too bright.
Come dear, and see what lies within,
It’s time to rest, over is your long flight.