A door is here before me,
Painted lower blue,
It has a personality
As much as any door might do.
This door said something to me,
And hoped to expound
Profoundly about
His love of locks and keys
And things like this which fit
Sometimes perfectly,
Although I can’t be sure
Because I am not at all
Proficient in languages
Of barriers between here
And there, in this case
Made from old oak trees.
Sometimes he would be drunk
And talk at length about how
Things were better in the past,
When doors like him had respect
And weren’t just for walking through.
Sometimes he turned maudlin
And sad for people’s passing hues,
Who only caught a portal,
And missed his greater truth.
He is permanently locked up now,
Shackled, chained and bolted;
No one visits the other side
Since the gardeners all revolted.
People continue to walk by
On their way to shops
And markets brimming with fish
And semi precious stones.
Where there are weeds, I see Time;
Where there is pollen, I see potential;
Where there is a door like this door
I see what did and didn’t happen,
And that’s why I’m still here
On a shore distant and remote
From all I adored about you.
