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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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To My Door .II. White as a shroud and fearsome
with your peeling paint and your dead-bolt
resembling bad art,
you carve on the rug
a slippery path for yourself.
Afterwards, to bring out the fugitive inside me,
you blackmail me to seek, in vain,
Persephone in my underworld,
distancing me from a hodgepodge of people
in covetous possessiveness.
You, the damned sadist with an intellectual grin,
cheer me on to keep a callused heart
while I listen to the sounds of knocks
on your stilted surface.
Then, through my weakness
and karmic traces in my subconscious,
I slam you for revenge,
instead of the cheaters in pinstripes
and heart-breaking bandits who wear elegant ascots.
You wooden, two-faced, creaking fiend
with weighty chips on your shoulders,
you turn inside and outside, akin to a trap,
to let in the icy winters of my soul.
Little do you know
that before the reaper comes for me,
I’ll twist your locks apart,
bang you off your hinges,
demolish you into
a shadowy corpse with splinters,
so I can replace you with a black curtain
that will offer no false directions.
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© Copyright 2005 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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