Footsteps crunching on

dead scarabs of memory

we tread slowly

down wallpapered halls

sweaty hands holding

reassuring our own shadows.

Sepia-printed silhouettes

mouth their disapproval

but we hear only a pan pipe

drawing us to lover's leap.

Closed doors

like blinded eyes

watching and gloating

creaking and groaning

battered bridges

smoldering hotly behind us.

Reaching the open window

birdsong calls

our baggage falls

and dies

and we fly to the light.