Apr 11
an open door
preched upon a
quiet hill
rusty old door
waiting for no one
stands still
when it rains and
when it spills—
and
from her rails her
branches burgeon
her roots carved
into the soil
wooden stiles
freed of burden
now sprawl out
into the void
from her keyway
her eyes pry
shattered glass
that took her voice
her hinges
the last of her
last of a home
left for spoils
the last of a home
withered and spoilt
O' the lonely wooden
door!
the paint has
withered away
time
once it had a
home
once there was
a home
the last of steps
the beginning of
nothing
no windows
no walls
no nothing
and
my favourite
place
the last of
my steps
my kingdom of
a thousand thoughts
caught and spilled
filled by the silence
that haunts
O' my lonely old
door!
how it weeps
—old door
in the mouth
of autumn
through the month
of summers
in the lashing
winds of mid year
every shade of
winter
now craved in
the ruins
that only comes
but with age
O' the lonely old
door!
holding a sunset
stands still
