Mansions in Minds

Garbage closet, brain closet, things I can't say closet.

Poetry is a key, that opens every door.

Expansive gardens, free to roam.

Room to room and every space that tries to hide in a corner alone.

Waiting to be opened, a light switched on inside.

Climbing up the stairs, escaping the darkness of the basement.

A kitchen full of poets, soft voices that clatter upon topics of all.

Love waits in the bathroom, war crawls over the second floor, and more wait just down the hall.

Poetry is a key, opening both the entrances and the exits.

An infinite mansion where everything and everyone,

gathers around a dining table and waits for a young writer to pick up the pen and paper.