Padlocks

These padlocks will tattle on you,
Tell journeymen of an empty home,
They will peep into clumsy windows
And find your workshop in disrepair,
No groaning armours inside to fend them --
"This is not a warrior's home!" --
The wind will spill silver windchimes
All over their beggar ears and force
Hungry eyes onto the gold of her dress,
Framed where you sometimes stare at it
On nights too full of nothing soft,
They will rush without anticipation
And knock over the jade bowl,
Your crypt of unforgetting:
A blue-rose earring, the plastic hairpin,
That raspberry sherbet drop from her purse,
They lie as mummies under jealous vigil,
Scattered and waiting for deliverance
In hands that find in them clairvoyance,
"Yes, I will survive you just yet",
Their boots will creak on floorboards
That lead to deeper places,
Rooms where winds cannot reach
And it still smells of old summers,
Where the wallpaper cannot contain
The aldehydes of new construction,
All you remember of your visits are tears,
Wet tears, always, warm tears,
These men will unhinge croaking doors
But what will they take?
Perhaps the craftpaper stars she taped
On the lilac ceiling with trembling hands
As you sinfully waited for her to fall,
But they will leave the room, it's haunted
By the hiccups of pealing echoes,
They will leave your home red-handed,
Their boots heavier on decaying wood,
You will stare from behind curtains
and wonder, why do you lock doors at all?

Image Source: Niki Feijen