To My Door .II.

In blame and complaint of my door--for Slam

White as a shroud and fearsome
with your peeling paint and your dead-bolt
resembling bad art,
you carve on the rug
a slippery path for yourself.
Afterwards, to bring out the fugitive inside me,
you blackmail me to seek, in vain,
Persephone in my underworld,
distancing me from a hodgepodge of people
in covetous possessiveness.
You, the damned sadist with an intellectual grin,
cheer me on to keep a callused heart
while I listen to the sounds of knocks
on your stilted surface.

Then, through my weakness
and karmic traces in my subconscious,
I slam you for revenge,
instead of the cheaters in pinstripes
and heart-breaking bandits who wear elegant ascots.
You wooden, two-faced, creaking fiend
with weighty chips on your shoulders,
you turn inside and outside, akin to a trap,
to let in the icy winters of my soul.

Little do you know
that before the reaper comes for me,
I’ll twist your locks apart,
bang you off your hinges,
demolish you into
a shadowy corpse with splinters,
so I can replace you with a black curtain
that will offer no false directions.