He's knocking on the door

         He's been doing this for a few hours now, a few days yet, and an eternity actually, But no one answers still. The rain comes down like blunt bullets temporarily crushing and suffocating his capillaries and veins, his muscles are over 6 feet under and dropping and still-

       He keeps the bronze in his fist and knocks gently, rhythmically. The oak groans and whimpers for him to go home, but he's deaf to the door's pleas. His bare feet have sown them selves into the "Not so Welcome" mat; the weaves blend into his toenails like a poorly made scarf.

     He's persistent. Still he knocks.

     He knocks on the door. He kicks over piles of leaves. He looks for spaces in the sky where a person could slip through. He's been to the moon and back. He's been to every Ramen stand on the south end of japan. He knows the words "have you seen" in 20 languages, but pronounces it best in Swedish. He looks under rocks and mountains, and inside of undersea volcanoes.

     So very Persistent. So very Hopeless.

      He'll keep looking, even though he knows it's impossible. Like playing an H chord, when the musical alphabet painfully only goes up to G.

       G is for Gone.
       H is for Hope.

     The trail ends where the rain begins.