Hewn

Beyond the door
On the window
Lay a portal
The door
Was cracked
And had brass handles
But lacked
Any real beauty
Creviced
Was the wood
And it was widely understood
That it was fitted on a whim
The wooden window doors
The magic lay behind
And if you could search
There-in
Lay another world
An alternative dimension
And i should mention
That beyond each crack
On each door
Lay more, and more, and more
A myriad of sub worlds
Unfurled
And within each world
As day became night
And night became day
The wooden doors
Tables, and floors
Became the trees
They once were
Trees
That had been caught
Within the humans disease
And thence hewn
And later
As the tick, and tock
Of an old
Grandfather clock
Stopped
For a moment
Time stood stock still
As if ill
The wood
Was still wood
As time
Did what it could
To slow down
But time
Could be no other thing
And simply moved on
And whistled
Whilst the leaves sing
And rustled, and danced
With the wind
Romanced
Over undulating landscapes
And faraway dreams
Over rivers, and streams
Under a gleaming moon
Which lay
As though
Like a seed
Had been planted
In the distant sky
And then
There was nothing
The earth fell silent
The inkpan day
Proffered no secrets
And within the quill
Lay no ill
The earth breathed again
Then remained still
Until there was nothing
But a waxen, flaxon, breeze
Floating, and dithering
Amongst the withering trees
The window doors, and tables chairs, and floors
Remembered
As a sap of sadness
Leaked from their eyes
At the madness
Of their demise

by Jemia