Darkest of oak,
stained with who-knows-what,
little golden-gild knob,
Locking away all those
messy little secrets,
all those
tidy little lies,
all those
skeletons in the closet.
Behind the protector lies
that long forgotten love,
that hopeful little promise of
sunshine, gold;
listen now as I snatch words
from Robert Frost's very own lips;
nothing gold can stay.
Behind the little wall,
lies everything buried;
hatchets,
handles,
water under bridges,
but never really forgotten.
After forever and eternity,
when Christ returns to this
corruption, this
"promised land",
the hidden, stolen,
locked-away, locked-up
door that binds me here
shall open.
(Yeah, maybe
someday)
What do you think?
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