Through the dust and wheels, long broken stems. The gifts we offer. Collapsing shoulders, a darkened mind. Bags on the floor filled with bottles, empty. I stand in the doorway, just an excuse for what beauty could have been. Memories have worn down the blankets and curtains. Animal souls drain down dying walls. Paint stains the places we ignore. Dead food waits to be eaten. I stand in the doorway, just a breath through this frame. You aren’t looking. He isn’t looking at what left. I am not the sin. Not the phantom who wore these blankets covered in night’s death. I am not the one. My face does not hide in this ceiling, I did not cry for the past. You cannot blame me for the rising sun. The demons slip into the cracks. Where he breaks. I mend with me. Open your eyes. We have nothing but decay and rat traps. This broken heart sees only in two. The illusion that someone else leaves, or keeps or cleans. I have done nothing but stand here while everything rots and worries for more. My words are the song of the bird just outside. Looking in. We look through. Sitting in an old creaking chair just rocking and pain. We cannot cover the cold or shut anyone out. We can see and recover the space. We can move more than we know upon wings not yet opened. We can leave the letters unopened and visit tomorrow just inside. What will I become if I enter. What will I leave if I go. There is always another mantra or word to transform another. The power is wilder than we can imagine. Yet me, myself am the one who is here. I have fallen through many sharp branches. I have struggled with bodies that have disappeared. Ghosts, shadows, phantoms caught in my full length mirror. I write about gods because I am looking and wiping the light from the night sky. I pray to gods I can’t claim to know because I am calling the dream from my heart back to you. This translucent war, this crystal clear weapon. This dust and this samsaric theory of recovery and penance. If I could know you where the dark shore meets the warrior. If I could hear you where the screaming fear meets the arrow. Across the magenta morning sky when the birds line up waiting for trumpets to sound across vast intrepid arenas of lonely human thought. The chosen one could then appear and lift me from this doorway. The haloed one could lift a deadly arm. Into the mire of God fumes, through the shame of bodies locked. Inside a heart torn in two. We could touch both places and relax. I cannot pretend to be alone anymore. I cannot imagine you are here. There is a point on the horizon, inside my beating tired head. Where a diamond rises, silver blue from the ocean. Where emptiness ceases to need any space at all. Where wave after wave I hear you just waking up. Spirit Bird, we never knew how far love was. We never felt how close we came. To her, filled with many pearls and children. To me, the creator of this. To bliss, because love is everywhere. To clear mind, because sky is heavenly. To truth, that all birds eventually fall. To this doorway I stand in as her.