Literary Devices

Metaphors only exist in words, anything else—

In the real world is simply a ghost, in that you feel it is there, but you can reason why it’s not

Or maybe just in that you sound crazy when you try to describe what you’ve seen

So that door that I sit in front of—

The one that is usually open, it’s being closed on this particular day,

In the real world means nothing

Yet on this page that closed door is just another fill in the blank

And the fact that I am sitting today, unintentionally, directly in the center of these two closed doors,

Is just something I noticed, irrepressible, like that I was born and that I will die,

But in my existence the centerfold between me and this door is transcending past those limits of reality

Metaphors however, are only ink, so the girl, draped in black, who opened the door just now,

Reflecting the light rays in my eyes—

She was just a girl and it was just a door

Just a closed door, whose opening is not a sign or an ounce of hope—

Just merely an entry from here to there

Until written down on this page