Days Like This/Behind the Crimson Door

'all things pass, all things move on; even this'


Desperation breeds invention,
creativity the key to survival,
it’s hard to give
when there’s nothing left to offer,
even harder to take,
when you’ve taken all there is to take;

we’re all just holding on.

Today was a picture perfect day,
not a cloud in the sky,
not too hot,
not too cold,
cool gentle breeze blowing,
sweet and pure;

days like this are the worse;

the sadness comes seeping to the surface,
the yearning for escape softly whispers,
the need to anesthetize cries out;

days like this
always make me want to get buzzed,
days like this
always make me want to forget.

So many traps,
so many snares,
so many one-way roads
with destinations leading nowhere;

never going down that path no more.

Darkness lives,
just outside this crimson door,
waiting like a stranger in the shadows,
slithering as a snake
back into its hidden hole,
purpose has no meaning here,
clarity just a slip of the tongue,
silence fills the endless void,
words die like falling leaves on a tree;

days like this
never end.

The obsession grows,
steady and slow,
without beginning or end,
distant clouds on the horizon,
wandering in this wilderness,
the enemy waits for the moment;

the storm is never far away.

Outside,
there is talk of change
as some hold on to the hope,
still others grow cold,
either way the sun rises and sets,
with or without our consent;

when the Son of Man returns
will there be any faith
to find?

This moment no longer moves,
out here,
among the frozen wasteland,
dark and endless,
forgotten and alone,
cold to the bitter bone,
old voices fill the air,
cries of the raging beast,
secret sanctuaries
hiding within the chaos,
butterflies flowing on the wind,
lost somewhere within nighttime shadows,
waiting for something more,
madness my old friend,
I can no longer deny your sweet touch;

it always begins like this,
it always ends as something else,

like the lead character
in a Fellini film,
wandering through fields
of golden nonsense,
swept away by the growing hush,
traveling a hundred miles
to move an inch;

the crimson door
knows no pity.
.
.