Door...

A Poem by The Quill

An attempt to explore the insight emotions related to the door

Dusty, rusty, weathered, old,
Dull, weak and having many holes,
Tempered wood, weakened from core,
And I am watching- an old wooden door.
When I was a kid, this door was bitter enemy to me,
It used to hinder my liberty, my freedom,
I stared at him with feelings of animosity and irritation,
& door remained aplomb, stolid, free from any excitation.
One day I realized I can open the door,
All needed was a support to lift me,
I used a brick and opened the iron chain,
Yes, indeed the ecstasy was no less than winning a game.
I grew more, now could open it with ease,
With pride in eyes, I looked the door,
But with time that animosity was gone,
Instead I felt sorry for door, it was all alone.
I realized that, I lost my enemy,
And now it had no control on me,
But now, I was grown up and could easily understand,
The door wasn't an enemy, in fact a protector and a friend.
I left my home, and went to a different city,
My life floated ahead calmly and smoothly,
I forgot the door and our relation,
And, was busy in solving life’s permutation.
Now again, after so many years, I get a break,
I am an old man, wrinkled skin, white hair,
Thinking of going back to my old home,
Where, in numerous mischief, my childhood has grown.
I reach the home and see that door,
Old like me, weak and dusty,
I open it, with curl on my lips,
Holding a coffee mug, left out for few more sips.
I realize that the door is now my friend,
I use it as support, to cross the room,
It is a dear one, my childhood mate,
Sitting on a chair, I use to talk to that gate.
Now also that door is helping me a lot,
It shuts off cold winter breezes, stands firm in the way,
By seeing charcoal lines on it, I remind that golden times,
When the door was the notebook for my nursery rhymes.
I am alone in the house, and watching the door,
It seems the door is also happy to see me back,
I sit on the ground, close my eyes, using the door as a support,
Feeling like sitting with a friend in a resort.

© 2014 The Quill

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Featured Review

Benita-Staebell M - Kin..

I love it was like a story.

BRAVO nice work!!

Thank you for sharing this wonderful piece.

I loved these stanza's lines here.

Holding a coffee mug, left out for few more sips.
I realize that the door is now my friend,
I use it as support, to cross the room,
It is a dear one, my childhood mate,
Sitting on a chair, I use to talk to that gate.
Now also that door is helping me a lot,
It shuts off cold winter breezes, stands firm in the way,
By seeing charcoal lines on it, I remind that golden times,
When the door was the notebook for my nursery rhymes.
I am alone in the house, and watching the door,
It seems the door is also happy to see me back,
I sit on the ground, close my eyes, using the door as a support,
Feeling like sitting with a friend in a resort.

Blessings. kindred poet