He felt alive, was able to breathe, and stir his thoughts
About all, that had been happening to him, within the vacancy
That had become his domicile, still furnishing his bare walls
With closed doors, that hush, the stained path forward,
A sky blue door, rich, in its delicately painted strokes,
And like a stone wall, it forces him to stay stranded in the storm,
A heavy downpour, crashing hard upon his vulnerability,
As it never even creaked, staying silent, staying still,
As another door, slowly stretched open, it seemed so inviting
Until it slammed, just as he approached, a sting from the scorpion
Held in the center, protruding from this stone barrier,
He’s been scouring this earth, for too long, a path of thorns
Frame the way, tirelessly painful exchange of moments,
Searching, past the shallow end, only to be stripped apart
And dragged right back, to where I constantly return,
It’s the horror, of this love story, the doors show no weakness,
As he, seems to be stripped down, exposed and discarded,
Yet he rallies, and approaches a new door, becomes the invited
Perched under the grand chandelier, huddled in its shadow,
And then he sees her descend the shapely staircase
As they embrace each other, and float along the melody
Into the depths of time, running it out, together,
Or was he simply, a man pretending, to be there
Dancing, with the ghost of his fantasy?
the_dorian_poe's Blog 