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The Automatic Door
An automatic door is a supportive thing.
Slides open and closed, with a pleasant “ping.”
No need, anymore, to push with might and main,
Pull normal, heavy doors on this we tend to blame.
But in every work of art there's a flaw, no doubt.
What if we stand in front? Not planning to go out?
We'd be exposed with a rush of frigid air,
Misconception occurred; the door does not care.
Your intentions are true; our attachment strong,
But I’m sorry. I confided; yet you were wrong.
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My friend wanted me to write a poem about an automatic door, and I tried to connect it to a time when another friend of mine accidentally told me some wrong information.