The Door to Gray

Ne'er old wood,

Tattered and rusty,

That didn't open my expression.

Pulling in where skull meets spine,

Here, but many a mile away.

Dirty fingers draw it down.

It's musk,

entering, absorbing, consuming.

--

I'm in old London.

The gas of the wrought iron lanterns flick across the facade.

Candles glint against the hardbound stories of love and war.

Children's laughter echoes in from the garden.

Lilac wafts passed me,

as if in its grandest, final dance.

I am mist as my boots tread silently across the oak.

Stepping into the enclaves of intellect,

swirling around like a tornado.

Philosophies, morals,

the degradation of the human fiber.

Mere twists of the tongue,

more meant to shock and awe than illuminate.

Grim soft leather beckons me to a show.

A sole actor,

of his own making.

His nature's host,

delicate,

his essence,

barbed.

I watch as he enthralls them,

strokes their chords and,

like puppets, they dance.

They waltz their way past conviction.

They sway towards their sinful passions.

All the while,

and in their eyes,

he remains untarnished.

From the corner,

gold taps my shoulder and gently pulls my chin and gaze in its direction.

Within it,

hues methodically primed and now rearranged,

in vileness, of highest order.

Set to decorate,

no,

set to warn,

with poorest affect.

I study its face and with a twinge of recollection,

a soft finger graces the top of my hand.

Turning, my gaze meets his.

My surroundings begin to fall away,

as does the fog with the coming of the sun.

The door to my left,

my husband to the right.