By Senan de Léas
The Black Door stalks me silently,
throughout the busy scenes.
Ever present, always watching,
never straying far from me.
Sometimes distant, sometimes looming,
it depends upon the day.
Sometimes the door can slip my mind,
but it’s never gone away.
I’ve seen it on the mountain tops
when I wander on my own,
through the wildness and the quiet;
it lures softly, beckons home.
But more so on those frantic nights,
when I claw and pull my skin.
When, writhing, I lie weeping,
fighting calls to wander in.
Through its frame there lies a nothingness,
just a silent, dark unknown—
a slip toward sweet oblivion
(where we must all one day go).
The Black Door stalks me steadily
through every waking day.
It’s been years since our acquaintance,
and I fear it’s here to stay.
Through all the put-on empty laughter,
every forced and shallow smile,
I shun the Black Door’s siren song
and stay another while.
I fear that it’s a numbers game—
how long can I hold on?
Until a perfect storm arrives
and the door and me are gone.