Red Carpet

                                                ~ Red Carpet ~

       (There is perhaps nothing in the world more tragic than the relationship
               between an author and a story which can never be written…)

A shadow of a paper doll behind me on the wall
A message from an angel’s heartbeat silenced by the fall
A sign from the night when regret touches fear
The first sight of blood in a single red tear
On purest white floor, an impassable plane
To the door at the end of the hall

One blazing candle entrances my eyes
Binding my gaze to the auburn oak door
Waiting, still I’m waiting for the truth of what’s inside…

             A poisoned silver pen
             Storehouse for the horrors of the stories never told
             The place I’ve always been
             Storing all the torment from my torn and bleeding soul

             Falling, now it’s falling from the paper to the floor!

             The flower slowly died, crushed between the pages
             Draining all the horror from the storyteller’s heart
             A gently murdered child, pain of life unfaded
             Stained the empty pages of a holy work of art
             Caught behind this door at the beginning of the hall

But in my hand I hold the key
Its golden edge reflecting me
Unforged and yet foreseen to be the source to set each other free

Watching, now I’m watching sad and spellbound by this flow
Flowing, as it’s flowing through the gap beneath the door

Lit by the candle, this mystical liquid
Glistening dark on the white marble floor
Years going by like a slow-motion river
Warmed by the heart of the one I adore
Bonding forever, your blood to my soul

Now it’s below me, surrounding my feet
             The damage is done and the way is complete
To the door...to this door at the end of the hall
             The end of the hall, the beginning of all

The red carpet beckons me
Bidding me to turn the key
But warning me of what I’ll see…

             Believe me child if you should dare to glimpse into my haunted soul
             There’s nothing ever there but pain and rage and death and deep despair
             From hell-born oceans pouring forth with severed skulls and butchered hearts
             The untold martyrs of the priestess, sold for wine and torn to pieces
             How my heartache never ceases, all of their affliction mine
             Hymns of praise to hide their silent screams, and then a pleasant smile
             Seductive lies meant to disguise me, tearing from between
             There’s nothing else inside of me but sorrow to be seen
             All peace is bound by horrors from the future and before
             My blood drips off the table to the torture chamber floor
             I’ve rolled my burdened soul out on this darkened scarlet carpet
             That whosoever will may know, this world of death is not my own

The final invitation
A beautiful and clear request of permanent recourse
Of true amalgamation
Two tragedies of never-changing, unrelenting force
That came to be this quiet stream across the clean white floor
From underneath the door…at the beginning of the hall

The red carpet waits for me
Calling me to bring the key
To calm the voice from in between

My footsteps dripping red…
My fingerprints upon the pen…
             The heartbeat of a resurrected doll
Reflected in my dream…
Our book of pain, the seventh scene…
             My lifeblood, the beginning and the end