The passageway to success is an illusion,
fun-house mirror that leads to nowhere,
and there is no escape from the avalanche of stuff.
False doors and false hopes,
friends and fabled endings are not the openings.
You thought romance would save you,
but we are all just companions in the search for love.
You pull at doors that turn to stone,
and your clawing fingers' futility exhausts.
Doing is distraction and pleasures are fleeting
and your facade crumbles from the weight of your fears.
Are you still pretending the life you are living is the reality?
When will you realize,
the door to your deepest self is within, already ajar.

Nothing is simple,
so far from home.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020


Popular posts from this blog

Letter to my future self

Still the Birds Sing