10.30.12 (your door to my forest, my prison)

i had hoped
to tie a string
from my arm
to the the door
so i would not
have to leave,
but the wind
cut the night
into threes
therein.
your voice
in darkness
churned awful
memory,
but the night
and the wind
brought forth
certain clarity.
unchained from
the door,
but shackled to
a tree,
the wind
chills my bones,
in the night
still three.
unfortunate fate
forever haunting;
unlucky souls
yes,
that is we.