The Open Door

A mangled sofa dying on the appartement floor.
That's what I see through the open door.
Cobwebs hung so decandantly as though she
Took each painful hour with glee.
Cracks in the walls driving through the paint,
Cracks under her sunken eyes she looked from.
It cracked up her life and left her dying,
Her veins split open and her family crying.
I walk on in, a tourist to her life of selling
And buying and using and always abusing.
A door opened once, yet closed across the world.
We bury those before they are old.
We bury those who are gone from their head,
Lost so young they die before dead.

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