A deck of cards
Shuffled and randomly
Turned to face the sky:
My mind.
A cinema of random thought
A seating capacity of one.
Alone I walk the corridoors.
It's a lonely place; my mind
Doors lie closed for years,
Gales and storms leave them so
Only to be opened
By the slightest breeze.
Enough to send the jumble inside
Into a flurry of torn pages
And discarded memories,
Placed inside for a reason.
A deliberate effort
To cleanse a conscious.
Each of us close our doors
For the burden of keeping
Each door open
And each guilt seperate
Would kill us.
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