Each new door is an opening on another dawn.
I sing, “It seems to me I’ve heard that song before,”
you know, the one from that old familiar score.
If you believe it, that’s all good for you. For now.
Just be forewarned, one of these days,
when you’re opening a door, you may finally have found one
that’s a smack dead end, in a cartoon maybe a brick wall,
perhaps with you on the ultimate receiving side,
mortared in, air thinning, the onset of dizziness before the dark.
And by the way, if for some reason you’re naked at the time,
never fear, ghosts always come back wearing clothes.
You’ll unembarrassedly be able to tell your cautionary tale about naive optimism
at some séance, or when you’re haunting a house,
or roaming abroad moaning away on moonless nights,
warning souls who still don’t know how true it is
that not every door opens onto another dawn.