Poem: Closed doors. Free flight.

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Closed Doors. Free Flight.

The door is worn.
Paint flakes on each panel.
There is rust on the hinges.

It is still strong despite the wearing of age.
There is no bowing in the wood.
There is no rot.
It is locked.

And well it should be.

Some doors need to be closed.
Let the demons on the other side rage.
Whisper, as you turn the key,
“There is nothing for me there.”
Whisper, as you turn the key,
“This is not where I wish to live.”

Ignore the siren song of false promises,
of beautiful lies, both the ones told
and the ones you tell yourself,
all behind the door
as you walk away.

Shout, as you reach back and throw the key far
into the fast running river currents. Shout
your declaration of freedom,
the promise of your rising, all
by the closing of a door.

About this poem

A lot of times we are loath to let things go, to close doors, to take a chance (although it is not a chance, but a certainty) that new doors will open.

But at times, closing the door and walking away is the most amazing and wonderful thing we can do. The power in it can be surprising.

But it shouldn’t be.

Tom

PS – the picture was taken at an abandoned factory in Athol, Mass.

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