_ The Red Door _
The red door sits firmly pressed,
Its crimson body flush against pale arms
As its frame etches out its wide berth,
Its silence coats the early morning
With a sound of silent stories,
Its mouth once a birthing place of pages
And wanderers of the former.
It is subtle in its existence
But warm in hollow presentation.
As its abandonment
Of use leaves it sterile,
Crisp against the yellow
The angled walls of its master,
Constricted to the tombs of pale arms
And yellow grasp,
It brings vision
To the changing path.
The town’s warping frame,
It’s a page in the far beginning
A chapter most forgotten.
Yet it stands firmly,
Marked by the mischievous
But is quietly confident among the ripple of time.
The red door,
Left for the imagination of wonder,
The spectacular spectacle of thought
Never intended, to be the blooming art.