THE DOOR
{A story poem}
In the quiet of twilight, where the edges of dreams blur with reality, an old man stands before a door. It is not just any door; it is the door. Weathered wood, splintered by time, and hinges rusted with a forgotten life. The door stands as a sentinel of memory, guarding the threshold between what was and what could be.
He reaches out a trembling hand, fingers tracing the grain, feeling the stories etched into its surface. Each line, each knot, a chapter of a life lived. The door is heavy with the weight of years, yet it swings effortlessly in the realm of dreams, inviting, beckoning.
In a room somber with twilight,
an old man sits,
his silhouette
a ghost of yesterdays.
Shadows span across the walls,
whispering secrets of time,
silent witnesses
To dreams once held, now dissolved.
His hands, rough and worn,
trace patterns in the air,
a ritual of absence,
a prayer for what was lost
The clock ticks on,
a metronome to his solitude,
each second a heartbeat,
every minute of a lifetime.
The door is freedom,
beckoning, seducing
promising a life of
memories untold, unshared.
The prison of the room
as silence reigns supreme
he finds a kind of peace,
a quiet place to dream.
© Carl Scharwath
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| Carl Scharwath |
I've always wanted to go through that door - thank you for letting me peek at what's on the other side.
ReplyDeleteThe melody of the final stanza…
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