Thursday, May 3, 2012
Or, to say, we most regret the undone thing.
The outer door and not the inner going out,
Closes off all we might hide within ourselves,
What is dust, what is old beyond enduring,
What we know too well and know nothing about,
Rooms full of stripped beds and empty shelves.
We opened this door at least ten thousand times
And only once return to find a funeral wreath.
A lady's little finger holds a purple handkerchief,
As she presses the button to silenced door chimes.
Our desires, like roses, still retain a hint of red,
Memories, like lilies, are blown, sapped, and gray.
The lady beseeches, "It's not too late. Come away!"
The door says do not die before you're dead.