I lock my door upon myself, Fernand Khnopff

growing on stalks that become brittle holding form right up until disintegration effort made to square everything up make sense of it through staring eyes stopping only when Hypnos stole their blue the essence of me invisibly taking flight as I linger in gloom too heavy to rest my head triptychs span the horizontal and vertical ironically telling stories with ~ no beginning, no middle, no end fine chains catch my gaze add it to their lustre I bathed in echoes until nothing cried out stories seem finished when pages are full but let tumble empty words to unseen floors who cares how my scene is captioned maybe when I return I'll tell it straight