The Open Door

I’m pounding at the open door.
You ask me why, but I’m not sure.
I look among the scattered room
And see an open, calling tomb. 

The dead are rising, crying woes
Of rotting souls, died long ago.
Their bony hands reach up at me
Pulling at me desperately.

I close my eyes and see the stars
And scabby wounds turned into scars.
I count the years and so it seems
I may at last have found some peace.