I see a door in my mind
that all of my words hide behind
and pain is the only key,
that has ever opened that door, for me.

It creaks in smooth tonality,
in rust-with-age duality,
and looking past the chipping white,
you see a home, a house of light.

The house stands tall with all its might
to protect the words within the light
words with incredible power to heal
words that provoke the reader to feel,

invoking the flurries of song,
and Winter’s lyrics were right all along;
mysteries fell to allusion,
preludes and bodies, betrayed with conclusions.

Winter's lyrics are always chilling,
and letting them out is always healing .
I'm addicted to hurt, I need it,
and it took me till now to see this,

as I need one more day of rhapsody
and want another, still, it's fantasy;
sonatas can't awaken, long deceased,
and so, eternal rhapsodies could cease,

but I hope that in this instance,
death holds no permanence.
and I lament the days of yester-Winter,
when the cold didn't seem quite as bitter;

bitter to chamomile, honey and all,
while yesterday’s flurries continue to fall
and compound as prisms, for every starlight,
that capture the morning, and passage to night

and it is in this moment, soft shadows are cast
I inhale the beauty, for I know it won't last
that's the crazy thing about having feelings
life brings pain, brings inspirational teachings,

bringing our halos to lens flare,
our energy finding the meaning to air,
and all it found were rhapsodies, again;
rhapsodies, still coming to an end.