Tunnel, a poem by Branwen Rhiannon Drew at Spillwords.com
Jacqueline Day

Tunnel

Tunnel

written by: Branwen Rhiannon Drew

@BranwenDrew

 

Walking through,
pitch black.
Eyes useless.
Feel rough rock walls,
both sides, closing in?

Can’t think clearly.
Stale, fetid air, no sound.
Heavy wet silence.

Lost, searching.
Feeling along the right-hand wall.
Shuffling along.
Slowly.
Now a scraping sound as feet move.
Debris on the floor?
Faint glow ahead.
A candle flame, flickering?

Slowly walking,
Slippery, slimy, crunchy surface.
Must be careful,
Might stumble,

Feel light breeze
cooling dripping sweaty face.
Finger running along the wall.
Oozing a wet cold sticky liquid.

Light getting brighter,
like a distant flashlight now.
Still very dim.

Inching forward,
toward the light.
See the rough slimy floor.
Dull gray, slippery.
rocks sticking up here and there.
Sucks up the light,
like a black hole in deep space.

Sounds, barely audible,
like a muffled conversation
heard through the walls of a cheap hotel room.
Cool air moving faster,
sweet smells of new cut hay.
Then the shrill call of a hawk on the breeze,
about to swoop down,
Followed by the desperate screaming of its prey.

Light getting brighter,
reflecting off a dirty slate colored wall.
Pieces flaking off onto the floor
Go around a bend.

Bright light ahead,
Streaming through
a jumble, a pile, a chaos
of rock, rubble, and gravel.

Dig around the light,
fingers now bloody
from shards of shale,
broken finger nails.

The light is now streaming
through a hole a foot across.
Keep digging, fingers numb.

Opening now
shoulder width wide
half a foot high.
Walls closing in.
Need to get out.

Squeeze through the slot
light from the outside.
Scraping through,
torn shirt bleeding back.

Head outside,
Fresh Air!!
Pull, slither through.
Standing in the fresh air
and sunlight.

A wide green meadow,
a low stone altar built from fieldstone.
Sitting on the altar,
A gold box with a lid.
Open the box, a flash of light.

I open my eyes,
Sitting at my desk,
putting pen to paper.
In the box,
I found my muse,
my poem.

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