When I open the door again I will find
that nothing awaits me. In my mind
the fires of hell are quelled in a flood
sent by impossibility, reeking of blood.

I will see no longer a reflection, I will cast
no longer a shadow, I will take the past
by his throat and the future by her neck
and I will drown them in a tide of black.

Clothed in the skin of time, I meekly revel
in my loss of sight. However far the travel
presents itself, I have known that twisted path
will wind back to the beginning in wrath.

I am my own torturer, but I cannot yield.
I huddle not in fear, but in a tall grass field
where I am but a stalk in the wind,
and I am just a sock in the lint.

But even with my eyes closed, I know
the hallway will never empty. A dim glow
from beneath my door comes as a warning -
I cannot escape what has always been coming.

The monster lies not under my bed but
just beyond my door, the threat of knowing,
the risk of being, the consequence of hoping
will always, always make the deepest cut.