The Wall With The Door

There’s a wall

That has the door

To her Universe

Engraved on it.

And when you

Enter through it

You’ll see pale blue walls;

A standing mirror;

A balcony that prides

A basket swing chair with white cushions.

You’ll see a row of medals

At a perfect forty-five degree

Hanging on the wall

Beside branched shelves

With the spring of books

She collected since six.

There’s a white cupboard

Which has more black

Than any other colour.

There aren’t any photo frames

By the black notebook and, paint bottles

On the desk but,

There’s a black diary

In the second drawer

That has photographs

Of hollow smiles,

And younger faces

From a trip she barely remembers,

Tucked in the secret compartment

On the last page.

There are journals of

Science, and Mathematics

With pages decorated with

Doodles and, mandalas

In the corner.

You’ll find her

All over the place

In imprints that she

Leaves behind in

Everything she touches.

You’ll try painting

Her picture

From these pieces

That you think complete

A jigsaw puzzle.

But, turn around

And watch the wall

That had the door to her

Universe engraved on it,

Painted with

Galaxies and, flowers;

Prints and, blocks;

Red and, blues,

Merging to purple;

Splatters of pain

Stroked with love.

Watch the all

That has a fragment

Of the Universe that

Resides inside her

And realize that she is

A collection of jigsaw pieces,

Completing infinite puzzles

That you never knew

Could co-exist.


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