Come with me into the cave
crunching down a pebbled path,
steadying candles, stony plaque thickening,
mildew filling our noses and settling
over the barren bed
where we sit on damp boulders,
drip wax at our feet,
then trace flickering faces on granite walls.
We nod, blow them out;
red wicks dim and disappear
and behold darkness, so pure—
no shade, no shadow, no sound, no breath
nothing here, nothing not here—
but this dark blood filling our ventricles.
Peter C. Venable has written both free and metric verse for over fifty years and been published in numerous poetry magazines and journals over the years. He is a retired clinician, volunteers at a prison camp, Shephard’s Center, and a food pantry. Visit him at petervenable.com via Google.