The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Red Door,

Breathing life is this being
Loudly dynamic and seeing
And even if now not fearing
Fully terrified is the core

Thoughts of peace do coexist
On the vacant never-ending list
While fading amid in the mist
Since walking through the door

Extending and always so giving
Naively jaded yet kindly forgiving
Is the density of this called living
Desiring happiness endlessly more

Faithfully labelled she is a mother
And although never looking for another
Barbed thoughts do sometimes scatter
Hearing calls of dying in the obscurity

While amiss is the irresolute feeling
Inhaling the stench of rot so chilling
Behind closed doors to open unwilling
Forever seeking some sort of security

Modestly sprucing up the doors red paint
Even though the fumes do cause her faint
As the emerging warrior repels its taint
Unloaded are the riches to a local charity

Authority tactfully invaded of the role
As she wins the resigned votes in the poll
Wanting desperately again to feel whole
Still needing, hungry, craving and lusting

This sentiment is not at all welcomed here
Still it lurks silently uncomfortably near
With absolute awareness of the shadow fear
It demands, defiantly wanting the trusting

Walk of life has no bearing on this feeling
Identified simply as the needless fearing
And with facing-off fear to win the starring
Door opens at last with compulsory existing

At last walking proudly through this red door
Believing one day to be worth much more
Nothing like a hiding and shameful whore
Her power of will keeps on boldly persisting

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