Poetry in April -- in celebration
| "Doors forget but only doors know what it is doors forget."
Carl Sandburg, from Doors
When the new year stays behind us, together with new everything, and the fire in the hearth, crystal red, neglects carrying me to you, I can stop searching for you, little by little, on my own.
You spilt the Champagne,
ripped the trimming from the door
hearth smells of ashes
This nostalgia is like going to Heaven in the arms of Morpheus and plucking an exquisite wild flower. In the morning drowsiness, I will sigh for such a special flower or even a delicate petal, which isn't in my hand anymore.
everything's a lukewarm dream
hope leaves my threshold
When the wind steals my banners with your name on them, I will let my feet grow roots into the ground for holding up sturdier signposts.
tangled tongue bleeding,
I grow roots in silent rock
faith still strong inside
Although I tried, I recognize I cannot close that many doors behind me, as you are behind an infinite number of them, and as it must be written on my stars, I shall not divine any success in forgetting.
Prompt: Put a door in the poem