To the Room

He opened the door slowly and walked in.
I heard the heavy footsteps on the wooden floor,
Like those of a tired dream.
I could hear him breathing,
I could hear the despondent, tedious sighs
Whirling around these old, tired remains.
His countenance chiseled, carefully, gingerly,
So deep a wound, an imperishable reminder of a past,
Of an age existing only to be regretted.
A step debilitated by time’s whimsy,
A breath clogged with life’s duping breeze,
A body halted by the haste of precious never-ending days;
A human transmuted into a fleeting memory,
A trite wish on a birthday card,
A rhetorical “How are you?” on a wretched day.
A defunct tow of a dispersed hope,
A corpse in an involuntary motion,
A burden jumbled with nostalgia.
His eyes are empty; dark deep breaches,
So lost, contrite and wanting;
It’s the longing, the pleading for a second chance.
His eyes empty, so empty
With a dim blink of madness… dead now
Yet pleading for a second chance.
He wanted to sink in the ruthless desires,
The devastating melancholy of a heart
Torn in confusion, wonder and perplexity.
He stepped forward, yes, one more useless step
Towards the stairway.
A drag, a lift and a breath; we call it a man.
He reached there, he made it; what a will! What a victory!
He lifted his eyes (for the first time now since he walked past the door),
Put his weary, puckered hand on the staircase banister and stared upwards.
Moments passed standing there, staring.
He could see the flights of stairs, followed by other flights of stairs;
They lead definitely to the room, no doubt of that…
Yet, he saw a lot of stairs.
He moved slowly, very slowly, and sat on the second step.
He put his hands on his lap, made a quite sigh
And went on staring at the floor underneath.