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Why?
Why is this gate here?
What is stopping me from going around the side?
Why are they trying to keep me out?
What is on the other side?
They want to keep me out.
Nothing lingers to stop me.
They must be hiding something.
There is a farm in the distance.
I ache to get in.
I trot around the side.
These flowers are delightful.
I beam for the farm.
I hear shuffling from the barn, something isn’t right.
I try the door; it’s locked. Something isn’t right.
The noises stop, something isn’t right.
Suddenly the door bursts open, I should’ve obeyed the gate.
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I wrote this piece about Owen Gromme’s painting Gate.