John Biscello

It had been a long climb up the steps,

and an even longer journey to get there.

And now this.

The man, who had been a boy when he started the trip,

paused, to catch his breath, to settle into his age,

and then wondered if the girl with the key in her mouth

hadn’t been a girl at all,

but rather a demon,

or even worse, no girl, no demon,

no dream, no anything, really,

except his own secret history

of baffled metaphors

and scant interpretations

as to why

another message always appeared,

always, to entice continuation.

The man, prone to habit, walked on,

just in case.