Waiting for the Trumpets

The sanctuary is dark. Silent.
Empty
save for the light, in the distance, far
but not so far there is no hope.

That is enough.
A place to walk to.
Safe and dangerous both.

There are traps.
There are demons.
There are flagons of poison.

You focus
on the light,
waiting for the trumpets.

About this poem

When I was about ten or twelve I had a recurring dream about walking in a dark attic, certain that there were dangers and things waiting to get me. In the dream, at the end, trumpets blew, and then I would wake up. I never found out what the trumpets meant.

Sometimes, depression feels like that.

Tom