Frozen door handle

His hand trembled against the frozen door handle, Though he did not remember, he knew he had been condemned To turn it, again and again.
The folds of his hand did not quiver, But the tremor of his soul Was more tangible than obligation.
The event itself lasted no longer than a lightning strike, Yet the echo of its emptiness stayed with him for years.
When the door opens, When he steps beyond its frame, When he cannot discern whether he moves through dream or void, He will know— Both illusion and reality must fade, Must take on the color of forgetfulness, Like their creator.
And there, all he has ever possessed Will lose its hue. No complex equation required, The fundamental law of singular essence will unfold.
That green ball, That wooden house of brown oak, That old blue record played while gazing at black-and-white photographs, That pink shade that tamed him, Even that violet prayer rug— All shall fade.
The tremor in his soul was the whisper of a sigh, A sigh only he knew, Only he understood— How painful it is to lose color.