   In the mysterious landscape of limestone caves, gorges, sinkholes, underground lakes and rivers just northeast of Trieste, known as the Karst, Dante was inspired to locate the entrance to the Underworld.
 As the subterranean water carries away the soft calcium carbonate rock, so too does the River Styx’s ferryman Charon whisk away souls who strayed into a life of dark choices.
 Often we are led to believe that The Prince of Darkness has lured the beguiled by way of seductive trappings. As thou we were under the cunning ploy of a grifter’s game of 3 card Monte. Adam is drawn into sin by the moist fruit offered up by the curvaceous Eve; herself entreated to fondle and nibble the hanging handful by the wet smile of the writhing serpent.
  But, we are told, Satan is on a leash. And  like Béla Lugosi’s Count Dracula, cannot cross a threshold uninvited.
  Thus after leaving Trieste and Dante behind and snaking by rail thru Italy’s northern regions, I find myself in the humid realm of Milano.
 For weeks I thought back over Dante’s netherworld, it’s bleak entrance within the Karst, and the adjacent port of Trieste, itself a city not unfamiliar with carousing and the lustful ramblings of many a person given to the appetites of the flesh. One soul bearing such feverish appetites was James Joyce, who soddenly traipsed to the city’s bordellos while scribbling about his fear of roasting in the dark flames of Hell.
 As I sat on the apartment’s balcony mulling over temptation, beguilement and suffering, or what defense attorneys might deem entrapment, I would casually take note of the stairwell in the grounds below.
The grassy courtyard never served as playground for children. Nor frisbee park for dogs & owners. No sunbathers were to be found, reclining on elbows, ankles crossed and bikini strap unhitched while reading pulpy delights thru Foster Grants.  It’s said a parking garage was beneath and this was but one of half a dozen stairwells scattered among the large apartment complex leading to the cavern of cars. Occasionally, I would glimpse someone laconically strolling to and then down the stairs. Never rushed. Hesitant at times as though guided by curiosity or accompanied by uncertainty. No destination imploring urgency.
The grassy courtyard never served as playground for children. Nor frisbee park for dogs & owners. No sunbathers were to be found, reclining on elbows, ankles crossed and bikini strap unhitched while reading pulpy delights thru Foster Grants.  It’s said a parking garage was beneath and this was but one of half a dozen stairwells scattered among the large apartment complex leading to the cavern of cars. Occasionally, I would glimpse someone laconically strolling to and then down the stairs. Never rushed. Hesitant at times as though guided by curiosity or accompanied by uncertainty. No destination imploring urgency.
  But never in the months I spent there did I witness a soul emerging from the stairs.
  If we are to believe that the first move
need be made by the sinner, this would run counter to the notion that those inhabiting the animated mud are but pawns in the tango betwixt grand overlord and his errant
Angel. The leash dropped once free will exercises poor choice. Must we see that choice as necessarily guided by the foulest of humors, craven longings or foolishness? Were not the children of Limbo denied basking in celestial glow through no fault of their own?
need be made by the sinner, this would run counter to the notion that those inhabiting the animated mud are but pawns in the tango betwixt grand overlord and his errant
Angel. The leash dropped once free will exercises poor choice. Must we see that choice as necessarily guided by the foulest of humors, craven longings or foolishness? Were not the children of Limbo denied basking in celestial glow through no fault of their own?
  The door to The Land of Shade is neither arduous to open, nor hung with wreath of rotted fruit calling the spiritually weak as if fruit flies.
 The door is simply there. Available not just because morality has proven a shifting and confusing compass. It is en route to the most banal of tasks. It’s convenience at times without question. Even the most mindful might tumble, as has the diligent ant, into the lair of the Antlion.
Drawn with fountain pen, DeAtramentis Document Brown ink, Pitt Artist Pens on Tomoe River Paper.