The Door

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.

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