Every day the sun does rise
To its zenith in the sky,
And when it sets the moon comes out
As a beacon for dreams to fly.
But on this night, on a corner street
In an apartment up above,
An old bakery in the slums of town
That was stripped of thoughts and love.
The rats and spiders roam about,
This apartment old and worn,
Through cracks and holes in the wooden floor
And past the curtains, tattered and town;
Only startled by a dusty man
Whose skin is cracked as if
The salt from the see had dried him up
And would split with every shift.
A withered breath of long stale air
Sends the rats away quite fast,
The old man baker comes to life again
While thinking about the past.
The bright colored shop he used to own,
The beautiful wife beside,
His once cheery face and hearty laugh
All vanished when she died.
Soon bread would burn and people’d complain
And soon he’d be alone.
He’d lash out at any man or child
And a smile was never shown.
Forever stuck in perpetual hate,
The baker was closed away.
His door was locked and curtains drawn
Never to see the day.
Thirty years have come and past
Since the baker lost his wife.
Thirty years since he closed the shop
And stopped his lonely life
Decades since the accident
And since her dying breath,
The old man was never quite the same
Since her early death.
No family for him to go to.
No shoulder to soak his tears.
No person to hear his story
And to quell his growing fears.
The old man stood from his old armchair,
The floorboards creaking loud;
He tore down his curtains and wrapped around,
Worn as a burial shroud.
He turned the knob on a rotten door
The hinges rusted shut,
He pushed his weight upon the frame
Past it, who knows what.
The door flew open to utter black.
His sunken eyes were blind.
A cloud a dust filled the air
And his courage he must find.
He called out to the darkened room,
“Take me if you will!”
He threw his arms wide open
Only to hear a piercing shrill.
He flinched at the sound that he heard,
The flapping wings of death.
Til a bat flew out through the door
He could not catch his breath.
His heart still raced as if it were
A drummer boy’s drum a-beating,
His feet grew chilled and his mind went blank
His courage now was fleeting.
He backed up from the entryway,
The rotten door still open,
The devil laughed from beyond his sight
And a soft prayer was spoken.
The door creaked shut, and the lock clicked,
The old man removed his shawl.
His fragmented heart with thoughts of life
These thoughts that always haunted.
His lover’s voice still echoed through
His ravaged, war-torn mind
As he opens that door every few years
Hoping she is what he’ll find.
But every time he stares into
The darkest black he’s seen,
All he hears is the devil’s voice
That asks him how he’s been.
And every time he slams the door
In the devil’s grinning face,
Before the flaming tongues of hell
Can even get a taste.
So now the baker sits again
In his old armchair,
Waiting for another year
His eyes an empty stare.