by Westley Nash
Waiting is the hardest part in this room of tired hearts.
Where a gallery of pallid faces serve as a canvas to skilfully express the unspoken fear of the silent artisan within.
Such a waste!..
These poor souls, stagnating in a world that passes them by without hesitation or mercy.
Without a single regard for this, their unwanted frailty.
The fluorescent lights do little to break the silence,
or to distract from a thousand worries, a million doubts and the seemingly infinite capacity for incurable despair.
Like statues of wrought iron, these harrowed figures remain as lifeless as their hearts that trapped them here.
But soon an event will occur that shall bring animation to the stillness,
as those accursed doors which have remained a vexatious fixture in the minds of these afflicted ghosts
swing open to summon the next chosen one.
To liberate them from their torment.
To where so many have passed before and where so many more are destined to follow.
But alas, not me this time...
I am to remain a member of this scattered collection of imperfect sculptures,
rejoining them within that crippling paralysis once more,
silently awaiting the call.
But as I sit in quiet discomfort, I can't help but ponder the same troubling thought.
For when those doors finally open and invite me inside, what stories will they tell?
Of hopeful new beginnings, a fighting chance at redemption?
Or the tragic tale of inescapable conclusion.
A single tattered page that reads: