The red door memoriam

Just a small piece I wrote one evening.

        Scent is a powerful memory trigger

        There’s no doubt about that
        Red Door, elevated above all other
        She walks past, and my mind reverses
        To an office building in the nineties
        A carefree time, a moneyed time
        She wanted to be my counsellor
        But who counsels the counsellors?
        The ancestry reeked of Old Europe
        One who could launch ships with a glance
        So spake the legend, writ in water
        In the end, we never even got on a boat
        Yet we were a grand pair
        Neither of us right or solid in the head
        We talk, we talk, we talk, husky breathing
        Two damaged souls groping for solace
        Scream and rage, immature anger, Asperger’s stricken
        But I wander close and there’s the Red Door
        Oh, how I want to be invited in
        Friends with benefits, pre-meme, pre-trope
        One evening I found a way
        Not a well-travelled road, not even a path to follow
        Trough and crest, peak and valley
        That’s how that road was trodden
        The highest high you are to me
        But I don’t want to think about the lowest low
        I made vows and compacts, half-spoken promises
        Still that Red Door was closed
        Even if I had unlocked it
        It could never last, not even in semi-permanence
        Doom, fate, karma, name it at will
        It fled over the horizon, and the Red Door slammed shut
©1996-present Peter Greenwell Text and images Creative Commons License
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