04-28-2023, 02:04 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-28-2023, 02:15 AM by Quixilated.)
The Door
It follows me, this ancient door
covered in moss and the rust of yore,
always in the corner of my eye,
always to the left and too far behind
to touch if I reach out my hand
hoping for a glimpse of fairyland.
Through the cracks soft whispers wander,
so I stop my breath to hear and ponder
with longing upon a world I’ve never seen.
Should I start my search with magic beans,
or ask a bird to find a key of gold?
Does the door no longer open once I’m old?
Still, the door lurks just behind
in the corner of my eye—or mind—
it calls to me to come and play
to dance away the hours and days
to forget responsibilities and pride
and find a way to the other side.
It follows me, this ancient door
covered in moss and the rust of yore,
always in the corner of my eye,
always to the left and too far behind
to touch if I reach out my hand
hoping for a glimpse of fairyland.
Through the cracks soft whispers wander,
so I stop my breath to hear and ponder
with longing upon a world I’ve never seen.
Should I start my search with magic beans,
or ask a bird to find a key of gold?
Does the door no longer open once I’m old?
Still, the door lurks just behind
in the corner of my eye—or mind—
it calls to me to come and play
to dance away the hours and days
to forget responsibilities and pride
and find a way to the other side.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara