Door Eyes.


I am sitting in a small room
staring at the door like I always do.
It stares back at me.
Pair upon pair of eyes
(made out of the knots in the wood)
glare at me slantwise,
suspicious,
almost accusing.
They lay my sins out before me,
marching along endlessly
into some black hole of my memory--
fading out
into a song
I always seem to sing.
But it is not quite enough--
they glower as if waiting for more,
seeing places in myself
that I never saw
because it was too
wooden
for me to understand.