The Man with the Doors

He came one evening, wrapped in mist,
No shadow followed, no form to exist.
Silent lips, eyes tightly closed—
But with each step, a room arose.

They whispered, “Who bends the roads like this?
He leaves behind a trail of cryptic bliss.”
Another claimed, “He’s a thief of time,
Or perhaps its keeper, cloaked in rhyme.”

His fingers bore small hollowed rings,
Where locks once lived like secret springs.
No palm lines traced his mortal core,
But doors instead—forevermore.

A heavy chest upon his back,
Rusty, old, and sealed with black.
They said it held forgotten dreams,
From centuries past in silent streams.

Each night he came, into the square,
Drawing doors from whispered air.
Some dared to knock, to see, to seek,
But none returned once past that peak.

A child once asked, “Whose gates are these?
And what strange lands lie beyond with ease?”
He smiled gently, never stirred,
And softly whispered these quiet words:

“I guard the edge of time’s old wall—
Where shadows echo when memories fall.
Some doors conceal, some carry pain,
Some loop back, and some remain.”

“How do you know which door belongs to whom?”
Asked one, trembling, through the gloom.
He said, “These doors—they speak to me,
Like dreams adrift in a haunted sea.”

“They choose the ones who must pass through,
I simply watch what they must do.
I do not judge, I do not guide—
I hold the lock, and time decides.”

Then one night, he drew his final door—
A bleeding frame upon the floor.
“This one,” he said, “opens just once,
And after that, it feeds on silence.”

They stepped away in fear and awe,
Until an old woman slowly saw
The handle gleam with gentle fire,
And reached with hands long worn by time’s desire.

She touched the door, and it replied—
She walked right in, the night then cried.
Since that hour, he’s never returned,
No door drawn, no path discerned.

But rust still hums in drifting breeze,
And lonely hinges groan with ease.
In alleyways where secrets curl,
A faint knock taps, a shadow swirls.

They say he waits in time’s own tomb,
Among the doors, beyond the gloom.
And should you knock with honest breath,
Be warned—he trades in loss and death.

So speak with care, and mean it deep,
For some things woken never sleep.

He came one evening, wrapped in mist,
No shadow followed, no form to exist.
Silent lips, eyes tightly closed—
But with each step, a room arose.

They whispered, “Who bends the roads like this?
He leaves behind a trail of cryptic bliss.”
Another claimed, “He’s a thief of time,
Or perhaps its keeper, cloaked in rhyme.”

His fingers bore small hollowed rings,
Where locks once lived like secret springs.
No palm lines traced his mortal core,
But doors instead—forevermore.

A heavy chest upon his back,
Rusty, old, and sealed with black.
They said it held forgotten dreams,
From centuries past in silent streams.

Each night he came, into the square,
Drawing doors from whispered air.
Some dared to knock, to see, to seek,
But none returned once past that peak.

A child once asked, “Whose gates are these?
And what strange lands lie beyond with ease?”
He smiled gently, never stirred,
And softly whispered these quiet words:

“I guard the edge of time’s old wall—
Where shadows echo when memories fall.
Some doors conceal, some carry pain,
Some loop back, and some remain.”

“How do you know which door belongs to whom?”
Asked one, trembling, through the gloom.
He said, “These doors—they speak to me,
Like dreams adrift in a haunted sea.”

“They choose the ones who must pass through,
I simply watch what they must do.
I do not judge, I do not guide—
I hold the lock, and time decides.”

Then one night, he drew his final door—
A bleeding frame upon the floor.
“This one,” he said, “opens just once,
And after that, it feeds on silence.”

They stepped away in fear and awe,
Until an old woman slowly saw
The handle gleam with gentle fire,
And reached with hands long worn by time’s desire.

She touched the door, and it replied—
She walked right in, the night then cried.
Since that hour, he’s never returned,
No door drawn, no path discerned.

But rust still hums in drifting breeze,
And lonely hinges groan with ease.
In alleyways where secrets curl,
A faint knock taps, a shadow swirls.

They say he waits in time’s own tomb,
Among the doors, beyond the gloom.
And should you knock with honest breath,
Be warned—he trades in loss and death.

So speak with care, and mean it deep,
For some things woken never sleep.