The Door

The door brought with it a bristling

Wind, summoning a slight whistle.

And I sat and watched, two fingers caught between

Worn pages of a chapter. Who knew then what it might have

Took to blow those pages shut, never to be opened again.


Breeze followed close behind, an aroma

Of burnt trees and pine touched carefully

On the senses of the past. A time ago when a young lad,

Same of look, but youthful flourish, gallantly danced

Down the befallen crest of the estuary

And sung a tune of naivety.


The fire, next to my half empty glass,

Crackles soft, like the rustling of leaves,

Diminishing breath rusted still.

And the wind, that breeze, does burst forth,

Again, chilling me bare. A reactionary shiver

Produces, hairs stand straight as a twig, full of

Purpose. And I remember a time, long ago,

Of a winter so stark, and a boy so young.

About Jason L. Troy

Film Enthusiast; Avid reader; Occasional writer; Pianist/Drummer; Runner
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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