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Narrow Hall by Lelia Thomas

Will I burn for the blood on my fingers
Or strike luck in a great king’s hall?
Shall I find myself buried, six feet under,
In dirt, with nothing at all?

I’ve opened wounds and poured in salt,
Tearing flesh as others have done to me.
I am a victim and have assaulted–who’s more at fault?
I’ve wanted for blood and coveted what was not mine

Yet I have one more breath of life.
Don’t make me walk down the narrow hall
Lit so brightly by burning lights–
So white in a haze of fog.
I’m not ready.

Will I go to heaven for simplicity and charity
Or shall I descend into a lake of fire?
Burn up my cells–my existence in flames…
Death beyond a funeral pyre.

I’ve prayed at bedsides and memorized words,
Swayed in time to pendulums and the lessons found at podiums.
I am a saint whose understanding is blurred.
I’ve held the sick and loved deep in my soul.

Yet I have one more breath of life.
Don’t make me walk down the narrow hall
Lit so brightly by burning lights–
So white in a haze of fog.
I’m not ready.

Who finds solace when life has come and gone,
When holy books are materials beyond the grave?
Will poetic words matter where voices are silenced?
Who to save–who to save?

Is anyone ready?

Author’s Comments

Who really knows what lies beyond this life?