A record of my remnants

A whisper in the wind and I wonder- voices in the distance wind their way up the stairs, and I wait. Caught between realities, I don't know where I am. My fist pounds on your door- my arm is tired but you do not come. Enticement-meant to drag me away, I dig my heels in, yet you do not come to my aid. In a way, your gift of freedom is poisonous- I fear I will turn the other way, unable to resist, and you will not step in. So I worry, as I watch the rain on the windowpane, and I pray you'll open the door.