On A Door And Its Revelations Of Character

Were you the last person to open the Door?

And a dull tin shakes and coughs

A mirage of clues envisioned, nails scrape back the paper to reveal

nothing.

Why did you ask me that?

What sort of game do you play at?

And the question curls away,

smoldering greengrowth set afire by paranoia.

Questing onwards, the Door presents itself again.

Were you the last person to open the Door?

And a heavy, ponderous thought half rises

Stumbling out of a well worn track of routine.

It swings its head back, leaving behind muttered footsteps of:

Door, what Door?

Where?

And the question remains there, shivering lightly

Gentle and poignant nothing that

lays bare everything.

Were you the last person to open the Door?

And a thought blinks, turning it over

Excitedly considering the honor of replying.

Powdery leaves rise like living snow

And an answer ruffles its thin coat thoughtfully.

Yes, o course.

The question scanders away,

trailing broken leaves and a thick, earthy smell.

A portfolio of iron mixed in rich loam.

It peers upward, knocking on the hollow of a brain that could be

obliged to reply.

Were you the last person to open the Door?

No…

A thought pokes out, trailing one more thing like a umbilical cord.

A color.

Red.

The question pauses to consider for the first time.

Yes, perhaps it is.

And onward.

Yes…yes..? No. Yes!….no? No. I wasn’t.

A thought spins dizzily upwards and plummets down.

Wanting the solidity of a Right Answer, it hops from one foot to the other.

Finally, the question wraps itself up.

A small smile, shrouded as Mona Lisa, appears on its visage.

Were you the last person to open the Door?

An answer stands slowly, shaking off light fragments of conversation.

Its eyes narrow to see ahead.

It tenses and leaps to Logic.

Don’t know what door, so nah.

Ah.

The muted copper question settles down to soft, burnished grey.

It reflects upon its ways, and laughs up at the sky.

It asks nothing,

Except for everything you are.