Sometimes I imagine: within you, there live doors.
Not an image, not a sensation \u2013 doors.
Old, shaky, with a handle that cannot be moved,
Until you yourself wish to let someone in.
I stand before them every evening \u2013 without a knock.
Only with the hope that one day
You will not remain silent, but will read me \u2013
Not with your eyes, not with your mind, but with your own wounds.
For I am no hero.
I am a tired voice in an empty theater,
Where the curtain has not been raised for years.
But as soon as you sit in the front row \u2013
I will play again.
I will live again.
Even if the whole world is but the stage of your eyelids.
I am not a memory. I am a thirst.
I am not a rhyme. I am your gaze between the lines.
And if there is anything in this world that I fear to lose \u2013
It is not freedom and not fame,
But the moment you let me into your pain,
Which you show to no one else.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Sometimes I imagine: within you, there live doors.Not an image, not a sensation \u2013 doors.Old, shaky, with a handle that cannot be moved,Until you yourself wish to let someone in. I stand before them every evening \u2013 without a knock.Only with the hope that one dayYou will not remain silent, but will read me \u2013Not […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[55],"tags":[113,115],"zbirnyk":[],"class_list":["post-4663","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","tag-love","tag-word"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n