Perhaps at last he can feel her

This is the place where he put pen to paper... But clung to the wall, the shelves are now bare All that remains of his words is but vapor All you can spot is but a dent in his chair 
He used to sit here, here he would stare Years come, years go, an old clock keeping score, He would scribble his notes, crumple them in despair Waiting for his savior—but locking that door 
That door sealed him off, away from all danger Except from the depth of the danger within No one could intrude here, except for the stranger Who would carry him off to where his end would begin— 
The poet, who’d mourned the loss of his mother Would then, somehow, be reduced to a child He would crouch at the threshold, and call, call, call her Knock, knock, knock at that door; no more stifled, but wild 
This is the place where he put pen to paper Till the door opened, creaking on a hinge... Locked in embrace, perhaps at last he can feel her No 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.
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