Beneath the saints’ carved, watchful gaze,I pause at gilt ironwork’s curled vine.A veil, a hush: my darker daysare drawn a cleaner, calmer line.A lady — known, not named — sits here,blue-shaded in a candle’s glow,not judging me, but making clearthat mercy doesn’t need a show.I set my palm against the bar.The latch is cool, the hinge complains;beyond, faint breeze, a brighter airawaits where hearts are loosed from chains.I push — then sigh at what I’ve missed:Though gate swings wide with practiced grace,but only inward. I’m still here —and heaven’s still a distant place.
