No Arrow Marks the Way

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I walk the hallway, breath held hard.

The walls wear scars of stories knelled.

I feel the light grow thin, then flee.


The shadows cling like whispered doubt.

My prayers fall short, can barely rise.

Each step I cast against the void.


The walls are blind, yet press their will.

They trap the glow, erase my way.

My heart grows lost, confused, undone.


Some thresholds open, wide and kind.

I trust the space, step freely through.

I hear the latch complete its lie.


A sudden click-my choice made hard.

What felt like hope congeals to steel.

The air contracts; no path stays clear.


No guiding hand, no promised land.

No voice descends to mark the break.

No sign appears to save the dream.


I do not fall by chance alone.

I choose the path that glimmers warm.

A gentle voice that turns me wrong.


Not every turn sounds its alarm.

Some wrongs arrive in tender skin.

They wear the face of care or love.


Like hope that blooms, then fades to ash.

Like closeness lost without a sound.

I wake to find myself withdrawn.


The cost comes due, a bitter yield.

I taste the fruit of my disguise.

Its weight now binds me where I stand.


I search for solace, find no aid.

No button pressed, no haven formed.

The walls return my silence back.


This stage of life gives painted cues.

No crimson arrow marks escape.

No exit glows within the dark.


The end draws near, or so it seems.

Cold fate exhales its waiting breath.

The dark leans close, intent, precise.


Yet deep in me, a flicker stirs.

A memory warms the hollow air.

Shared laughter cracks the brittle gray.


Blue skies return in fractured light.

A hairline crack splits through the stone.

The dark resists, but cannot seal.


The spark ignites, refuses weight.

I strain against the pull of past.

My will stands up where hope lay still.


For death arrives not all at once.

It steals my joy in quiet theft.

It whispers doubt at early dawn.


It asks if I have slipped away.

If breath remains, or meaning holds.

If this is end, or only brink.


No savior waits beyond the wall.

No beacon cuts the choking dark.

The strength must rise from inner bone.


My body knows the act of breath.

A single tear divides the hush.

My chest remembers how to live.


A name returns, pronounced in fire.

A sound that roots me to the ground.

A cry that says: I am still here.


So I must run though shadows tear.

Through broken locks and failed designs.

Through corridors that fight me back.


For exits are not gifted grace.

They are not etched for time or place.

They do not wait with open arms.


They’re forged in heat, in acts of will.

Built by the hands that break the seal.

By souls who tear the dark apart.


Beyond the last, receding glow,

A door stands firm, unyielding still.

Its letters burn: not yet , not now.


In darkest night, escape ignites.

Not found, but made through fierce resolve.

I carve my freedom with my eyes.

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