Doors are my enigmas.
I wonder what lay behind closed doors.
A happy family of four with a pet,
Or a widow, mourning the demise of her childhood sweetheart.
A man, alone and filled with malice
Plotting to avenge all that is wrong.
A youth, filled with joy
For he’s going to dinner with his lady love.
Maybe a person whose soul has been slaughtered
But she still hangs onto her life.
Imagine a mild, happy old couple,
Their love nearly tangible.
Or a fiercely passionate one,
I can think of a rich man, sick to the bone;
Sitting on his velvet sofa, eating medicines like candy.
Perhaps someone struggling to make ends meet
But content, grateful and happy.
The common denominator in all
Are the facades created by their doors.
For nobody knows what truly happens
Behind these closed doors.
And when these doors open, out come
The residents, flashing smiles
And pretences at all they encounter.
Doors are masks.
Some engraved with intricate designs,
Others simple slabs of wood.
Some speak a lot, without giving away anything
About what lay behind.
Doors are entrances to vaults of secrets.
Be it a mere cottage entrance, or the gates
To an emperor’s palace.
An invader never truly knows
What stories lay behind closed doors.
Doors are indeed enigmas
With stories to tell.
Perhaps I’ll only know
If I ever ring the bell.
Dec 02, 2014