Nested in Myrrh

I have long listened at doors in empty hallways, with only the faraway sound of clattering metal and the gold-whispering dust turning in the light. It is beyond all sense now, to dissemble, too late I have warned you of scars in bone and sinew, but I tell you now; if hope is a thing with feathers, its carcass is on my doorstep. Wild, unnameable things have torn at it, now it is a ghost of gut and wing.

I kneel, hope it has nested in myrrh.

I have never had a listener, a reader. Especially not one who waits for each word, wants in silence until I speak.