Doors to Soul
Doors to Soul
A poem by me at 4am.
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The doors to encounter with soul are unique and aplenty.
Tailored to the individual.
For me?
There is a door in a lick and a bend of the harmonica blues scale,
And the silent hours carving symbols into clay.
In Jim Morrison’s scream of the butterfly,
And the electric wonderland of the wicked lady.
There is a door in dusty hands,
And a bewildered heart.
Where chaos clears chaos,
And headbanging brings me to restart.
There is a door in the moment a spark turns to flame,
When I’m deluged in it’s smoulder.
A door in the wind on the edge of a cliff.
When a friend cries and I can hold her.
There is a door in a dangerous climb,
Up a rough crag, up a mountain, up a tree, twisted kind.
And a door in a descent,
Down a canyon, down a lineage, down the passage of the ill-lit mind.
There is a door in tending to the land,
To the silence of the human-made.
Or the clash of the almighty defenders,
Being played by blackberry nightshade.
There is a door in an old, old story,
And in the ones who listen.
In a deep, deep scar,
When it bleeds, heals, and glistens.
There is a door every time I craft.
A door in poetry,
A door in a mind purged draft.
A door in the rare people you come across,
That fill a place,
That already was filled by them in the past.
There is a door in survival,
A door in the present.
A door out where there are no doors,
And doors in lament.
There is a door in the darkness,
In the candle at 4am.
Where I write these words,
And drift back into sleep...
Where the doors,
Open again.
——————————————————
♥ Beautiful photos by Erica Sundrop ♥
A poem by me at 4am.
——————————————————
The doors to encounter with soul are unique and aplenty.
Tailored to the individual.
For me?
There is a door in a lick and a bend of the harmonica blues scale,
And the silent hours carving symbols into clay.
In Jim Morrison’s scream of the butterfly,
And the electric wonderland of the wicked lady.
There is a door in dusty hands,
And a bewildered heart.
Where chaos clears chaos,
And headbanging brings me to restart.
There is a door in the moment a spark turns to flame,
When I’m deluged in it’s smoulder.
A door in the wind on the edge of a cliff.
When a friend cries and I can hold her.
There is a door in a dangerous climb,
Up a rough crag, up a mountain, up a tree, twisted kind.
And a door in a descent,
Down a canyon, down a lineage, down the passage of the ill-lit mind.
There is a door in tending to the land,
To the silence of the human-made.
Or the clash of the almighty defenders,
Being played by blackberry nightshade.
There is a door in an old, old story,
And in the ones who listen.
In a deep, deep scar,
When it bleeds, heals, and glistens.
There is a door every time I craft.
A door in poetry,
A door in a mind purged draft.
A door in the rare people you come across,
That fill a place,
That already was filled by them in the past.
There is a door in survival,
A door in the present.
A door out where there are no doors,
And doors in lament.
There is a door in the darkness,
In the candle at 4am.
Where I write these words,
And drift back into sleep...
Where the doors,
Open again.
——————————————————
♥ Beautiful photos by Erica Sundrop ♥