• Locked behind closed doors
    Where you breath turns to ice
    To a place the sun has never seen
    My refuge
    Cold silver handles
    Intricately carved
    With a language all my own
    Painted over with
    Images depicting battles
    Won and lost
    Myself the creator
    Of these struggles each time
    Inside these doors
    Vacant halls
    A labyrinth of
    A history not meant to be
    One candle lights a desk
    The leather bound book
    Laid open upon it
    The smell of the ink
    Is still in the air
    Its metallic taste is foreboding
    Upon approaching the old tome
    I find the last words rite
    There writer recently departed
    And the ink still reflective and fresh
    Glancing to the story there
    All I see is
    A statement that often goes
    Unthought-of
    But very effective in its fullness
    The end.