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Doorways, doorways,
made of clay,
made of stone,
made of hay.
Made of passions,
long denied,
made of iron,
held by pride.
Decisions once chosen,
never reclaimed,
never forsaken,
the ways already ordained.
The paths, the choices,
that we all make,
circling around,
like a coiling snake.
Biting its tail, never ending,
never foul, just a doorway,
to the clouds, to the flames,
where once passions lay claim.
As the end game, slowly draws near,
we slowly lose, what we held dear,
reality slips away, and this we fear,
as we slide through the doorway,
and all is made clear,
that the end of the dream,
has finally drawn near.
5 mins
word :"illusion"
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0PtIcAl
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