Waiting

The key to your heart hangs round your neck,

a golden trinket that remains untouched. As it falls

gently across your pale skinned shallow breathing breast,

each gentle tap reminds you of what has not been,

and may never come to fruition. The slow rise, and fall,

of the broken heart that beats within pounds on the ears,

like the thunder of a midsummer storm, tumultuous

in its extremity, yet gentle in its silence. Locked to

the world, imprisoned in the chains of your making,

you reveal nothing, content this perfect solitude,

this lasting peace will never be disturbed, will remain

untouched and unsullied. The door to your soul will

never be unlocked, your inner thoughts will

never be revealed. The dark shroud of mystery you

hide behind will always conceal the meaning of you,

always shelter you from the storm that rages

within, and without. You will be forever silent,

forever clutching at the key, forever waiting for the

hand that will release you.

© Fergus Martin

July 2014