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.
