Doorways

“What am I doing here?” You say.
You find yourself in the back bedroom,
and can’t remember why.

If only passing through were so easy:
some doorways recede even as you approach;
some rooms drag along with you:

the blood, the screams, the disbelief
are invisible engines
unspeakable hammers that nail us in.

“What am I doing here?” You say.
You find yourself in the black blood room
and must remember why.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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