The Open Door To A Silent World

A door creaks open, slowly,
with no fingertips to cajole it forward,
nor the hint of a breeze to coax its progress.
Its weight upon its hinges forces
it to cry out in protest, until finally,
it reaches its desired destination,
against a blank wall of stark contrast
to the stained grainy panels of the door.

The world is silent,
as a shadow is cast long
upon the threshold of the door.
But there is no one there.
The world has stilled in
its pleasure seeking,
and frozen in its stifling mundane.

Leaves, which at that moment,
were careening toward the ground,
in one final assault,
are halted midstream,
to curl and twirl no more
upon the glaze of zephyr streams.

Rivers which babble happily
and whisper sweet nothings to the breeze,
pause in the cessation of
now frozen ripples cresting and
riverbeds twirling in jubilant dance.

Birds, which but a moment ago,
chirped gaily a trill and warbling song,
now silent in their feather beds,
with nary a tweet nor a tune
upon their stoic beaks to rejoice the morn.

Children's play and gayest laughter,
falling into torpid state,
where feet in motion, stand stationary,
unable to crunch the
newly fallen autumn leaves,
and once smiling faces with rosy cheeks,
are petrified and immobile.

The sun is locked within its gate,
penned beyond its mighty glare.
So to the gentle moon awaits,
beneath a blanket of light,
for a time, which will never come,
to shed away the remnants of the day,
and rise upon a bed of midnight silk,
in all of its stately glory.

And as the shadow flows across
the threshold of the door frame,
it dissipates and dissolves into
the ether of immortal time.

And for the world at large,
now frozen and subdued,
life begins to sparkle anew,
as the pleasure seeking
and stifling mundane resume,
for but a single moment has past,
within the span of time eternal,
as a single soul transverses the gate
between the living and the dead,
to embark upon a wondrously mysterious journey,
of the unknown which lays ahead.