The door won’t close. You can’t walk through it
anyway. It’s dark in there, cobwebs in every weary
corner. Secrets hang like fog on morning water, air thick,
creeping toward the open door, but staying.
Outside is bright and green and calls to you, but still
you stay, in gloom. A hand grips you in darkness,
pulls you deeper, away from the door. Cobwebs catch
your face. I pass by and hear you weeping. You can’t
reach the door.
Talking to the Clouds 
This is beautiful. The ting spoke to me. Your words are true in so many ways. I love this piece.
Corrected; the writing spoke to me.
….don’t know what happened up there. Oops.
Thank you very much for your kind words 🙂