The Doorway

I’ve cut my hands on the broken screen door of dreams meant to be deserted; I can feel the rush of inclusion in a state of decay as it gasps open against tucked in eyelids. Smiles caught in dim headlights, before the empty sway of drunken iron drips from my palms as inertia drives it all to fruition, abstract revelations come to life. My eyes stutter, fighting to keep them alive. I press reddened palms against the dusty doorway, count in cadence meant for a heartbeat, and breath in harmonic patience with something I wish I could understand, but my sort of muscles are too weak to make an impact, my palms have become imprinted with the wake of trembling foundation’s sorrow. ….I look at them pruned by the sour chaste of possibility; rivers of emptiness run through my own imperfections. I’ve mended nothing. they’re still… cold. These dreams are stone, and I am only flesh; Pounding my fists against a doorway that has long forgotten I am here. -James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.