A door is open

A door is open

Sometimes shut

A window much the same

Perhaps there is a light

With curtains open or closed

A road is straight or

It might soon be winding

A blacktop

Smooth as ice

Full of holes

The hills distant

Blue, well remembered

Tipped with snow

Above the treeline

When they become mountains

Never climbed

Always waiting

Eyes, wide open, tightly closed

A voice barely heard

A sight rarely seen

A noise like thunder

A bridge with icy water

Flowing swiftly under

Deeply runs the river

As still, it seems to be

All of these phrases

Well-used every day

By lyricists and lacklustres

Who would-be writers

If they ever could

Just as it should be

What happens before

The door is opened, closed

Who lights the lamp

Walks the road

Climbs the hills

That would be mountains

If they could fit on the page,

Where has the river been

Where does it go

Who dares to look

Where many others won’t

Who cares for answers

When the truth is

Many don’t