The Doors

Is it a hall or a corridor?

I can’t seem to find the end.

I reach the doors of walls.

A handle in brick refuses to open.

Denied again, I reel in pain.

The door is never meant for me.

The beauty beyond was never mine.

Alone in the echoing halls, I wait.

The silence smoothers my breath.

Ice steals over my shoulders.

Will you hold me, winter? Will you never leave me?

Melting around me, I drown in the ripples.

The statue stares imperious and I wonder

How it can stand so strong all alone.

Does it help, that it is carved from stone?

The impossible pedestal remains beyond the remnantes of memory.

How can you be at peace with solitude? I scream.

Teach me…I whisper. Teach me to be ice and stone.

To put away this sorrow I’ve called my own.

Allow me to be content with my fate and succumb to these bindings.

Or cut me free at last.

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Published by

opalflame

I am artist, analyst, author, poet, composer, musician to name a few aspects of myself. A bit of a jack of trades, I dabble into many fields that encourage the blossom of imagination and allow me to channel my creativity. I dream vividly and view the world through the lens of optimism and opportunity while acknowledging the ink and shadows.

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