Fifteen Doors to Silence

Fifteen Doors to Silence


Pain depends on the doors to silence.
Heavy syllables creep like body bags

full of calcined corpses and a neat bastard grammar,
a spelling that imposes its hopeless scorpion seal

on silence. It is not pleasant to die on a cross of ashes.
It gnaws on your muscles forever.

Maybe at door nine you'll find a bearable death,
fate on an altar of fireflies. But who are we cheating? 

Gate ten or fifteen should be a better choice.
Distant doors like the tip of the sun celebrate winter.

Although on second thought, what is it like to die 
tacked to a dead door? Maybe it is necessary to burn the ships 

and flee through an iron path to the mountains of widows.
To die is to walk the Bible in reverse.