March 14, 2007

Door

A mammoth door withering along a golden hinge,
Dark brown strewn against a shy ray of sunlight,
My words against the inside singe,
Impressions of thoughts and sounds, hungry and quiet.

These words are my food, they are my trophies,
I hunt and pick them with care and hope,
They are my inspiration, my excuse to sigh,
To burn the world I know, to frequently elope.

I hate their stares, I hate their searching eyes,
I hate how this door withers through time,
I hate how these words cannot stay inside any longer,
That against a curious pen they chime.

Will these words grow out of their corners?
Only time and impatience can tell,
Will they fall or flow onto confessions,
I know not, till they decide to cat the bell.

My dreams beckon now, nightmares grin behind them,
I have made peace, they are not two but one at the core,
My past will foray into my present to create,
Ripples among words that singe against the withering door.

No comments: