The Door

You stand before the wooden door. It's closed.
Perhaps it's locked. What stands behind the door?
Another room? Outside, where you're exposed?
Will you be safe or will you dare explore?

You stand before the open door, each hinge
A tarnished plate of brass exposed to sight--
The threshold dares invite--you feel a twinge--
Of anger? Fear? Of sorrow? Hate? Delight?

You stand before the weathered door--it's cracked
And all you have to do is push--a breeze
Could open it--anticipation's wracked
Your muscles, which must push and which still freeze.

There's sometihng that you sense deep in your core--
You know that one of these is your own door.