The Rain Shuts the Door

When the life of the youthful flower
has gone away and died,
and love leaves through the main entrance
the rain shuts the door.

The hopes are left outside to be blown away
and dreams are laid out like newspapers abandoned
on doorsteps to be saturated with the sky’s tears
and then dried by the sun’s anger.

All that is left inside is you
and the company of the fireplace,
but no happiness dances in the flames
and no sighs spark in the wood that burns.

No hands holding on top of the old couch
babysitting the playful fingers that used to be with them.
No feet resting together on the wooden floor
and no heads leaning against each other.

The dark corners that wrap around the furniture
are the only ones that accompany you;
they whisper and snicker with each other
about your lost love.

Because when love exist through the main entrance
and the problems stay kept inside,
the joy continuously pushed away
the rain shuts the door.


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