If I walk on the first floor
The first room on the right
The third eye hears you on the left
We are looking at stormy weather on this island
Where there are two doors for lovers

One out of the other, surrounding us
Inroads and blazing highways culpable temptations
We are no stranger to choosing the next door
Being the strangers to reality as she asks Hera
Life is full of opportunity and misguided destitution
Isn't this astute, that we yearn for the thirty seconds with stars
And wait for weeks to fly by, when midnight
Will arrive on the cold winter mornings, the nights are brighter
Surprise us with dawn on the petrichor of Satryichon
Depends on which tree you're climbing, and which room you're zen in a lassoed sky
Where there are two doors for lovers, their dinner party
Instant pleasure, crushed glasses, pure rear-ended folk looking for an angry substitute for passion
Prejudiced by the mad sages, we never listen to the sense of old men stuck in cages
Fearing their umbrage and sensible confabulation
Every poem has to have an ending, this one does too depending on your sterile entry
Wound by pride, bound by prejudice