Locked

Pray thee, pray thee, once more.

The knocking at the door,

The prism at the floor, once more.

My warm white breathing.

All seeing, all seeming,

Again, the door, once more.

A flick, a shift, all methods futile,

Will try again to break this lock,

This lock so worn and brittle,

From future turns of the nightly clock.

Time ticks, it tocks,

It speaks like rhymes

Unfolds and winds

To guide the flock.

And the key there often sits.

In quiet repose it sighs.

In truth, it isn't kind

But scarcely admits,

That time is a film of sorts.

It begins and ends

Only in a sense of course.

It spends

The days, the hours,

Like kings use power,

Like envy uses love

To rise above.

Once more,

The knock at the door,

The prism at the floor.

The bell unused,

The light perused,

Once more, the room is locked.