• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 10


It might have been a tombstone
etched with cryptic lines
of ancient Ogham script;

it kept its secrets close,
unwilling to yield the name
of who lay below its feet.

Counting lines for clues
produced tangles of consonants,
meaningless without a key.

And yet, regarding it where it stood,
black and arched, I realized
that a key was indeed needed—

that this grave was no grave,
but a door, waiting
for the right hand,

for some gentle touch
to press it open,
so that it might yield.