The Door

He didn't know which door

or opening in the house to jump at,

to get through,

one was an opening that wasn't a door

the other was a wall that wasn't an opening.

 

He caught a glimpse of his eyes staring into his eyes,

In them was the expression he had seen in the picture

weary after convulsions and the frantic racing around,

when they were willing and

did not mind having anything done to them.

 

More and more I am confronted by a problem

which is incapable of a solution

for this time even if he chose the right door,

there would be no food behind it

and that is what madness is,

things seeming different from what they are.

 

He heard, in the house where he was,

in the city to which he had gone a noise"

not a loud noise but more of a humming.

It came from a place in the base of the wall

 

This, too, has been tested,

pointing, but not at it.

It wasn't a loud noise, he kept thinking,

sorry that he had seen his eyes,

even though it was through his own eyes that he had seen them.

 

 

Author's Note

Another poem taken from a prose, "The Door" by E.B. White. It was a class assignment.

Reviews

[Chris]

You need to "look" at your 'cut and pastes' BEFORE you press publish. Sometimes - " - a quotation mark is added (either randomly OR in-place of another punctuation mark).

This is a thoughtful piece and I'll think a bit more before commenting on it.