Winding Down

A stone door stands dormant,
dumb from silence, as if fate
locks golden locks and feasts
on blonde keys, but a piano
with white wings winds up
in front of the colossal wall
and taps its own tune as rich
as red velvet cake, singing
the chingling chains to sleep.

The facade spins in place
as highlighted hands shove
the entrance of the unknown
while steeping feet descend
down a spiral staircase, deny
advantage of higher air, and
the footprints he leaves behind
look like melting pocket watches.

"Watch out," Salvador Dali screams
from my side, and I assure him,
"This may be an infinite loop, yet
I know what I’m doing with Time."

-wrecks e.

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