I hear the rain outside, and it scares me.
Sweaty fingers slip, hands fail to clasp,
and I see the dark asylum of inner solitude
in the nearest of many futures
-- a door I have straddled before,
a threshold I hope never to cross with both feet.

Just as Wodan joined what was twisted,
and it is not forgotten,
so did I know this darkness,
and I invoke it today.
I know the walls around me,
the floor beneath me,
and the ceiling above me,
but the sky beyond hurls bullets to erode me.

They cry as warring masses before death
and they sing their count of the stars.
Their deaths on blue flannel
shine like blood of sympathy from my veins,
a purple darkness crisp as frozen snow
spackle-painted frenetically on my arm.

I stand in one world now,
which I built from nothing,
but it will fade, and I have only the choice of time,
which depreciates with investment and hesitation.
This will be gone soon, and what's left is where I came from,
but will that accept me back now that I'm different?

If a foot could think as a divine being
it might fear the rejoining of the ankle
because it is now greater than the leg remembers
and difference is rejected most.

The door is dark and soundproof, and only opens from the outside.
Help only comes to those who call, not to the silent.
To hell with exploring the mysteries of that darkness!
A keen ear hears the cries of doors as yet untouched,
and all choices are both for and against,
so may the refused be mourned, the accepted be cherished,
and the refusals to come be wise.