The Door Has Closed
I.
The door has closed;
your house is dark;
the curtains drawn.
I know you are in
there, hiding
in an inside room
with no windows.
I knock
but you do not open.
I ask for entry
but you will not receive me.
How can you be so cruel?
II.
It is you who are cruel,
I let you in to be my friend
but you
never thought me good enough.
Even now,
you hold tools in your hands,
your rough hands,
brutal tools, tools to tear down:
hammers to break me
and bars to pry
my treasures from my house.
Some of your work
was welcome,
but you went too far,
and I am hurt,
and afraid that you
will leave me
homeless.
III.
It is true.
I have utterly destroyed
some of your house.
You can mend the walls;
paint over the damage;
sit on the broken chair
and sing loudly
to drown out my song.
But you will know
deep down
that your house
is a prison.
It is true.
I would leave you
nothing.
And having nothing,
there would be
no reason to stay
where you are.
And nothing to keep you
from living
with me.