Turning Poem by Smoky Hoss

There I stood,
an old brass doorknob in hand;
the moment, still as a dream
frozen.
Though the knob be turned
a thousand times over,
so many doors never open.
- Time is always so wary
of us travelers
suspended beyond ourselves
between the thresholds
of days we begin to become old,
and the last.
These portals open to wholesale debris,
worn memories of extraordinary things,
and astounding fortuities,
that once I am gone,
perhaps no one will recall.
- To lose everything
(here & now)
is to be reunited with all
that ever truly mattered.
I turn the knob.
Opening this last door.
I walk into Love.