Doors

Doors
I met my death
with kerosene lamps
  a flood of lights
  and dancing shadows
 the creaking of floorboards
  dust collector
  gathering all the nations
   and these words
  are the tantamount to nothing
  in the insufferable heat
 to wake
 to all lies as you lie down
   an urgency
  to break wishbones
  I always got the short end
  dread hanging like icicles frozen on your cloak
  day after day
planning, scheming
 the sharp, severing every finite calculation
  feasting on partial birthed fleshed revelations
      the ugly truth
 in plain sight
  our trajectories
  are encircling like vultures
   carrion for fresh meat
 ready to eat
 moist choices
  blue, red, green doors
  surround me
  their brass handles to grasp
  they're refreshingly cold and solid
 which one do we choose?
 Or do these doorways
  implant some energy which expands, revolves, and embeds in us
  which cannot be forgotten, but to be emulating our dreams
  to remind us of
  a hope (or folly)
  a brightly wavering anthem
 sung or spoken
   Which should I open?