Crimson locks on cedar slats,
Dimly lit under the blinking
Flames on wooden wicks
Floating from dimensions
People lack the faith to
Truly believe in.
I climb the stairs to these
Chamber doors in order to
Understand what they conceal
Behind them, with all of
Its feminine mystique,
Under starless skies.
Keys hang from guillotine
Nooses with intricate knots
Along the forested paths
That bend and twist
And let out howls
When there is no wind felt.
I examine the metal charms,
Caressing each delicately,
Allowing my fingers to see
Their scars of aging and
Appreciate their haggard beauty
And dented birthmarks.
I look in hopes that I might,
By some serendipitous twist,
Release the bolt that hold
The door captive in place,
To reveal to myself what
Beyond that mirrored threshold.
I scout the perfect one:
Slender body with straight teeth
That cascade and emerge
With feminine ribbing not yet
Clouded with rust and time,
Shining ornately in plainness.
Approaching the door takes time,
Time I may not have,
Not yet cemented in time pieces,
Not yet siphoned through my
Eyes and heart, filtered pure
Into the past distilled.
The door fumbles with my key
Playfully, as perhaps a cat would
When toying with a mouse
It has no intention of eating,
Sounds of internal machinations
Reverberate up my arm.
The stars become agitated,
Descending upon me and resting
Upon my shoulders and collar,
Shattering the evening air with
Blinding wings in multiple sets
Sprouting from their backs.
My hand drops,
The key shatters,
I step back,
My heart flashes,
The air thickens,
Nothing changes.
Mists of twilight or dawn
Float around me, guiding me
Back down the stairs and into
The forest from whence
I came, beckoning on my
Behest to pursue retreat.
I gaze upon my boots,
The bodies of all the stars
Resembling those of fireflies,
Scattered about the cobblestone,
Ashes from intensity
Too strong and misguided.
My body becomes stolid,
Marbling as my eyes fix
Their gaze beyond the door,
The light in them waning,
As once did the fire that
Gave life to the stars.
Composed 12/12/12
Author’s Note: Another challenge from a friend: Compose a poem in which something dies. This one turned out rather cliché, what with the tower and damsel motifs quite blatantly there. Alas, they can’t all be 100%, I suppose.
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