Yellow Door

Crumbling buildings shrink beside Scotch Hall,
A yellow door stands out amongst them all,
Windows boarded-up, bricks a rusty brown,
But that door is the brightest door in town.

Lead-filled legs walk back to the train station,
Over-priced tickets greet me with inflation,
Eye lids so heavy fight to stay awake,
Sleeping on trains is a silly mistake.

I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.

Fate and faith are but mere fabrications,
Mind over matter, like these train stations,
I fled their false embrace so long ago,
Yet that yellow door now haunts me so.

Its number five gleaning bold as brass,
A mocking sheen so cold and crass,
It coaxes me to board a train once more,
To see what is beyond that yellow door.

I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.


(I wrote this while on work placement in Drogheda and saw a bright yellow door that was in complete contrast to the old houses of the surrounding area on my home from work one day; in other news, they let me off early for the second day on the bounce, which can only mean I wasn't doing my job very well at the time - BOOM!).