A turmoil lay beyond this door,
I can feel it.
Like a quenched sun in a small cage;
a dim rage lit.

The threshold hungers for my feet
to have them cross
but the door for now remains closed,
their supposed loss.

Perhaps my presence is enough
existing here,
pressed against the grain with my weight;
like bait, I fear.

But it seems I must make the attack first,
turn the handle
become consumed by the beast held
a quelled candle.

For now the door must remain shut
while I stand fast
against the wood and sounds that seethe;
I breathe my last.