The Hidden Door

Beneath lay a mystery for
Those awaiting the final illusion.

For a time slight-of-hand
Has kept them captivated:
Plain handkerchiefs drawn
From the magician’s sleeve
Change colors; Blooming flowers
Wilt with the touch of his
Wand; and reality disappears
As the magic words are uttered.

Striking alterations leave
The audience speechless,
But no words could still the
Anticipation for his final act.

On the stage before
Them a colorful sheet
Covers the unseen.

The spectators squirmed in
Their seats, waiting with
Bated breath. Their eyes
Dart from left to right
In search of anything visible.

The magician raises his hands.

Orion returns
The leaves drift south,
The hidden door is revealed
And the forest is finally knowable.

*This poem is part my ‘Timeline’ series. I will be writing a poem for every month of the year. This is the poem for ‘November’.* 

© Jeremiah Dowling 2014


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About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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