Footsteps In The Corridor
Often, experiences, and events seem to repeat, different age, another place, another time, same feelings. Patterns and cycles, for some they are never broken, often just repressed.
Footsteps In The Corridor belongs to the following groups:
All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical and WMGThe lights go out, no sounds to hear,
except that of a child whimpering
somewhere in the dark, out there.
Voices have faded — alone again,
the cold bare walls,
and bars of steel my only friends,
in the darkness I lay.
I pray for comfort and solace to come,
to wrap me in warmth and undo what’s been done.
And I listen for the footsteps coming down the corridor,
and still they don’t come, no, not yet,
the jangle of keys, nor the clanging of heavy doors.
And then my mind does drift from this place and time,
to when I was smaller, just a child.
And there I was curled in fear on mattress thin,
no light in my room could prevent their din.
Drunken fights and screaming — the thumping of flesh,
I trembled in fear — then the silence,
as if no one was there.
And though I cringed and trembled, I laid so still.
Listening for the footsteps coming down the corridor,
but still they didn’t come, no, not anymore.
And in the chilled morn’ of the new day,
when I knew that he’d be gone away,
I shuffled in tearful confusion towards breakfast again;
and there she lay on the floor, no movement she made.
I stood in tearful silence — my Mother had fled the fray.
And sirens and loud voices came and went —
a tragic, farcical parade.
And in a dorm’ of some stranger’s place,
others such as I did moan — mourn in restless sleep —
in graceless state. I trembled like a leaf in the slightest breeze,
and crushed my teddy to my chest to give me some ease.
And when the lights have gone for another day,
and the pain of loss within yet still remains,
men do cry in the silence of their cells,
and children still wander through their life-ways of hell.
And women still suffer from cruel reality’s hand;
and I wait and listen for the trumpet of salvation’s band.
In the stillness of my cell — cold steel stings —
a constant reminder of such circumstantial things.
And now I cringe in foetal positioning,
as I listen for the footsteps coming down the corridor;
for now they will come as often before,
to inflict their justice — as he did that night — once more;
and my Mother had bled to death that day.
© DjA “Crowmanic”
Gregory John O...
Very powerful writing Crowmanic. To say well done seems so inappropriate. What horrible baggage to have to carry…......... stunned
ginnymac
fabulous writing , so true.
juice
strong writing..really leave an imprint on me…
Crowmanic replied
it was kinda meant to be … impressionable that is, at least for some [shrug] appreciate you’re “hanging-in” there.
C J Lewis
Powerful writing Crowmanic :)
Crowmanic replied
thanks CJ, at least you didn’t say power-fool. ;-)
Mariam Muradian
If such real accounts ever become less than horrifically shocking and nauseating then something is terribly wrong in our hearts and souls. One is one too many….crying, curled up, clutching a bear, waiting for the footsteps. My emotions are filleted is to put it mildly. An excellent piece of writing, though dead-on and heart-wrenching. I am sorry for this you carry inside. The superhero makes more and more sense…..
Peace & Love,
Mariam
Crowmanic replied
Be not too concern Mariam, esp for I, ‘tis a story based on composite experiences, not necessarily my own. ;-) Just trying to get a view across ‘tis all.
janetmary
hey there – urgh sometimes its tiring eh! (maybe its just me!) but its also great to have the tool of storytelling, of writing and writing well – as you do. hey thanks for this story – reminds me of the ways in which we are marked, the layering of beings that we all are and how we carry what we know in our bodies. xjm
Crowmanic replied
Thanks Janet, kind words/comment, much appreciated. Pleased to read some others “connect” with such topical life-matters. Trust you are doing OK, as always.