Callous palm latched around the cold knob of a warm door. 

I press my wax-riddled ear to hear through the wooden core.

The reality beyond is a shapeless shore, filled with lore. 

An adventurous soul, philosophically paired with a pragmatic rapport.

Sweaty palm fastened to the knob of the closed door.

D O O R

A Poem

I stand at the threshold.

Callous palm latched around the cold knob of a warm door.

I press my wax-riddled ear to hear through the wooden core.



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