With a Spin

This is the place where he put pen to paper...But clung to the wall, the shelves are now bareAll that remains of his words is but vaporAll you can spot is but a dent in his chair  
He used to sit here, here he would stareYears come, years go, the clock keeping score,He would scribble his notes, crumple them in despairWaiting for his savior, but locking that door
That door sealed him off, away from all dangerExcept from the depth of the danger withinNo one could intrude here, except for the strangerThat carried him off to a place, with a spin—
The poet, who had mourned the loss of his motherWas then, somehow, reduced to a childHe would crouch at the threshold, and call, call, call herKnock, knock, knock at that door, no more stifled, but wild
This is the place where he put pen to paper...With a spin the door opened, creaking on a hingeLocked in embrace, perhaps at last he can feel herNo need to cry now, can't feel that twinge

Detail from my oil painting, My Father's Armchair. You can barely see down at the far depth, but hiding in the shadows is the entrance door to this place, where I grew up and where my father spent the last twenty four years of his life, alone.