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POEM:The Door

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The door:

rusty hinges

weathered wood

rhomboidal sag

 

The lock:

clunky brass

formidable

sturdy, shiny, and

out-of-place

 

Who puts such a sterling lock

on such a pathetic door?

 

Who could be blamed

for lifting the lock

to feel its heft?

 

But when the slightest touch

tore the rusty, pointy wood screws

out of the door frame’s rotten wood,

it felt like a burglary in process.

 

But what could be worth burgling

behind such a sad, worn door?

 

The only thing worth thieving was the lock,

but it had a rusty hasp & staple dangling from it.

 

And a lock without a key is a paperweight.

One needn’t turn to a life of crime for a paperweight.

For the defining characteristic of a

paperweight

is that it be able to sit in place

and not go wandering about.

Anything but a cat can be a paperweight.

 

The door creaked when I looked inside.

I had to look inside.

 

Who wouldn’t look inside

to see what was worth guarding

with a big brass lock?

 

Inside: pure darkness.

Except the back wall,

where light strained through

cracks & slats.

 

I took two steps into the inky murk,

and plummeted down my own personal rabbit hole.


1 Comment

  1. Fallen Saint says:

    This is really good! I love the brightness of the door, in the contrast. Favorite was the ending lines- amazing! -Fallen

    Like

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