The walls encroach, oblivious to what they’ll crush.
Eroded paths curve and narrow, teasing unsure souls. Sturdy stones can crumble like chalk with just one touch.
Is there an exit or just the illusion of escape? Open doors sometimes have invisible locks.
Nowhere to climb, the sky looms wide. The windows are closed, the glass is clean.
Rainless ground plays tricks on the mind. Light is not real. Green is just a dream.
Shadows paint pictures of ghosts, yet quell the fire that rages inside.
On the horizon, vines grow wild with forbidden fruit.
A shaky hand reaches for emerald keys.
Granite Dells, Prescott, Arizona
Photo by: c.b.w. 2013
– – –
c.b.w. 2014
C.B. Wentworth 