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The Door

Forbidding and dark, a fearsome object
A golden knocker, the object of regret.
Staining its frame with a deep loathing
It glowers at its victim, forever staring.

Hiding behind the walls,
Waiting within those halls,
Wanting, desiring, even one knock
Loosens the key, opens the lock.

The door stained with loathing is a cage
Built to withhold and stand against rage
Built to a pyre made of hatred and bloodlust
Eternally fuming, waiting as long as it must.

Only a fool would use the knocker cast in sorrow.
Only someone cruel would try to kill the morrow.
This door that glares at and protects all near it
Holds from the world a desire from Hell’s pit.





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