The Doorknobs

The divided doorknobs hang in their coffin,
seeing no sight of their shared possession
yet holding onto their grounded halves.

While a bright brass braves the light
and reveals the sun, a silent silver cowers
and hides the moon in a desperate fear.

One side buried, the other exhumed;
One wood warm, the other bitter;
One knob lost, the other found.

A single, right turn is all that is needed—
but how easily one can get lost among
shadows and insufferable burdens.

The Tree of Life, made into the coffin,
kills so it may live—only then can the
hand find the moon and turn.