The Closet

The closet was a home
To damaged tears
The closet was supposed to
be burnt to dust
It protected itself
And tried to be kind
To be nice

Fears and lusts
All in the locker
locked
Bastards and spiritual
rubbish
All rolled in the closet
In a sensual satisfaction

Each day a morning leaned against it
It's ancestors voice wanted
to know more about
A broken pencil and
and a paper torn
About freedom from the known

I worked inside it
Tried to figure all
the harm
The light always dark
Around the spiders hid
All that was rubbish

The closet was
one born to filth
Stood now still
The winter was certain
The bones chilled
A reality waited as a home
An answer waited to be unlocked

What would happen?
It would only burn to dust.