You walk right by my door.
The knob is tarnished but still manages to reflect some light.
You hang your coats of many colors beneath a thousand hats so easily worn... and flutter off to fit in.
The canes and the crutches are stacked upon my squeaky hinges so they do not fall down... standing guard as if protecting a tomb.
The music through my walls sounds muffled.
With each passing gait, the soiled hems of musty satin and lace make the dust motes swirl in unison... recently swept under the door for just this occasion.
The light that weeps through the cracks is orange and red and actually smells like burnt sugar.
It creates grotesque shadows in here that are so much more real than anything out there.
Stained wood has been coverd by glossy paint which has been buried in misleading wallpaper...
all except the closet... where perfect blood runs down it's walls and covers my sin.
It is said that I am a temple.
I'll have to take this on faith.