Solitude

The door closes, the window fogs.

The soft fire burning in the fireplace, keeping the frost at bay.

The quiet; calming at first, begins to cry out in agony.

It screams in my ear, wanting to leave, finding only barred doors; locked from within.

Story after story, allegory after allegory; yet, nothing quiets the silence.

A chill remains, the chill that was allowed in when the doors and windows were last opened.

The heat from the fireplace, the warmth of the glowing light; nothing seems to affect the chill.

I try cowering with the silence, with the quietness, but I stand at the door waiting for it to open again.