The Doors That Close

Hardly a day goes by when the hills don't see the crazy in your eyes. This is a combination of many things. The ground does not weep for stones. Higher up than plum-trees navigate, we join forces in the sky and take to the lake's last trellis on the arbor the gleaming condor of rope's rampaging real-time heat and rage, the unguarded smiling done behind closed doors, the lazy, melted love that melts and leaves around the heart for the protection of no-protection, and for that I am here, but not to be protected at all. The heart goes to light, the space to the right, the bright, the one who shines and bites the white space whole again from the inside out, from the top down, into the toes, and here I am. Wash me as I leave all my doors open to the wind and no footsteps travel through my mind to seek out doors that were never closed.