self conclusion in one simplified motion

she stores novels in shelves of her eyes.
chronicles.
i've read and penciled and quoted few
when almond doors were open.
yet brashly reach in at times
just as the iron doors close on my hand.

oh to spend the evening atop your roof,
dash the sealed window.
no...thank God.
there is a stamp to prohibit opening.

she spoke of feigned foreign things
how an angel bared her window.
despite desperation and torn fingers
she is alive.

not just another conquered mind in a bloodied body
for no resolution to counter such an ailing soul
and descend with clamor to cruel earth
like a dog
dead on traintracks.