Grey Room

i come in through the wooden door,
splintered as it was, after all those years,
the wars it has endured,
the wars.
and i walk right up to the wall on the far side,
listen with my ear pressed close.
the voices at the other end speak whispered,
i can pick up bits, i can decipher pieces,
and i hear the twist, the secret,
your deep-buried stones.
i think that i ran from there, that room,
the cold grey room, it's yawning windows inviting the
deafening light, the cruel december morning.
i ran from that room, ran from that house
at the top of Lavender Hill and i didn't look back.
i could never look back.
i find myself alone, again in a sickly grey room,
colder this time,
and there on the far wall, hangs a mirror,
and i have torn myself to shreds.
the mirror is unforgiving.
where is the door? the wooden door?