To Be a Dreamer

This time, a treehouse.

A rusty nail on the climb up

And a terrible view.

Only if you shut your eyes

And listen with your infinite patience

Can you hear it;

The peace.

Twice removed, a closet.

A finger pressed to lips

Tight as a secret

And just as unknowable.

Something burning,

A match in the sunlight.

A cloud of silence,

Dense in its distance.

A door, born to open but

Learned to close.

A scream leaps through the keyhole

And every bad dream lives.

Grief is a bullet.