In the oldest house
Where the stairs creak
And the windows
Are empty
There's a gate rusted over
With age and rain
And memories
And through the gate there's
A pathway to the door
The door that's tall and made
Of oak
Holes across its barren surface
And if the door was opened
Which it never is
There would be a carpet
Relaxing on the
Floor untouched and
Unwrinkled
And past the carpet are
The stairs which creak
Like old bones bending
The railing lays in pieces
Along the elevated pathway
And windows full
Of air follow your climb
And at the peak there is
A hallway
Covered in pictures
dying slowly in their frames
And past the ashen portraits
Is a room
With a broken bed
And a chandelier
That throws rainbows
On the peeling wall paper
And shadows
In the corner of
This desert place
Is a closet
With many shelves to hold
The garments which
Left so long ago
And on the highest shelf
Where dust resides
In a layer of secrets
There is a shoebox
Tied with a scarlet string
In the neatest bow
Everyone never saw
And beneath the top
Of the container
Is 33 letters
33 envelopes
Filled with paper hearts
And black lines of passion
A stamp of wishing pasted
Boldly on the front
The letters never move
From their frozen spot
Time holds them there
As well as the shoebox
And the cold weather
But if someone were to
Risk the opening
Of the oak door
The railing free ascent
The framed demise of smiles
And the broken dreams
If that someone were to ruin
The perfect scarlet bow
They would read the 33
Most perfect accounts
Of unrequited love