Elevator Doors – A Poem

Elevator Doors

The closing elevator doors sound like
a girl weeping
and remind of the county fair
we went to years ago
every fall.

The only thing I now still see clearly
is the color
red.

It was always only ever a marginal trust
we shared
with the devil
in our pursuit for equality and want.

I can still smell the air
crisp and fresh
coming off the asphalt and the grass
as we huddle in the overgrowth
where the cascading lights
reflect vividly vacant
in Teddy’s soft
callous eyes.

“I only believe in endings so pure,”
Mel says
as the blood from the tips of her fingers
is streaked through her blond hair
and the woman’s laugh
from across the darkening creek
comes gently creeping over the water
“that the nostalgic remains of our lives
become the tears
to open the gates of hell.”

And now…
and so
I am haunted
by those mystics
who climb from their crypts
misted and speaking a ruined
holiness.

A vessel is born as the elevator doors open
onto a world of decayed salvation
and exiting I leave behind the girl crying
hidden in its mirrored walls.

“They will always be, you know.”

I find my spoon in my desk drawer for my instant coffee.
A red light informs me there are messages on my phone.

“There is no word for it.”

 

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