I don’t usually give explanations on my poems. Some are quite personal. However this poem was written in the early morning when everyone was sleeping, the people in the house and the mice in the ceiling, even the traffic outside was silent. When I read over this poem I think I was high on oxycodone when I wrote it that morning. I remember being in a fog and it’s a little different then what my muse usually offers me to write. I like this very much I hope you guys do too.
there was a tap . . .
soft . . .
I heard tap, tap a little louder. . .
I looked to my left . . .
then my right. . .
I peaked behind me . . .
glanced at the ceiling . . .
and the planks on the floor. . .
I flopped on the lazy boy. . .
curled in my legs
and lounged back. . .
the tap loud. . .
louder until I heard. . .
a heavy knock. . .
that became a bang. . .
the single door. . .
made of red wood . . .
or was it oak. . .
a heavy rectangular . . .
standing tall. . .
shook and rattled . . .
with a plummeting fist. . .
when I opened the door . . .
they said it was for me. . .
the door opened into a world. . .
dark, twilight even bright. . .
doors surrounded me. . .
tall doors, short doors. . .
open door, closed doors. . .
red door, blue doors, green doors. . .
glass doors, plexiglass, steel doors . . .
key-less doors with codes. . .
they lead there, here, anywhere . . .
and nowhere. . .
it was quiet except for the flute, the violins. . .
the soft chants and chimes. . .
blowing where wind did not. . .
a gentle wind soaring. . .
in circles and whispers. . .
enter one, all or none. . .
visit the past, experience the present . . .
spoiling the surprise of the future. . .
every door is a gate way . . .
to a world you have, might or will live. . .
each door will lead to the next. . .
as you approach. . .
be fearless crossing the threshold. . .
you may enter a world of laughter. . .
a world of joy. . .
a room of lust. . .
desire and sexual explosion . . .
every room has consequences . . .
for every joy there’s a cost. . .
some doors will remain open. . .
some will close. . .
some won’t open . . .
because of doors you’ve been through. . .
the doors are real. . .
they’re metaphors of your life. . .
mistakes will keep you from entering some doors . . .
you go through doors you shouldn’t . . .
temptation will deplete your will power. . .
and weaken your mental strength . . .
these metaphor of your life. . .
on stage your failures . . .
your successes. . .
your hopes and dreams . . .
and disappointments. . .
you will feel alone as the doors fade away. . .
leaving only a stairway in a gray twinkling mist. . .
as you climb you will experience the doors you entered. . .
you will be filled with laughter, tears, love, lust, hurt. . .
you may be filled with anxiety and depression. . .
but. . .
the higher up you climb. . .
your pain will melt. . .
so will fear. . .
it will cease to exist. . .
some call this place, high in the sky . . .
through those golden and pearl laden gates. . .
heaven. . .
dreamy? is it not. . .
it’s called heaven to give us hope . . .
but heaven is in you. . .
it’s what you find . . .
when you find yourself . . .
without doors to hide behind. . .
©Kimberly Wilhelmina Floria 10/16
Thanks for visiting come back tomorrow and read my new post Higher Power.