These doors aren’t just locked—they’re moss.
No one has pried loose the lock,
Since there is no lock. It’s shut—
A gate that just hints at gate,
A door not in use, in shape.
What’s the good of door as wall?
Well, I guess it does look good.
It spooks me, this stone grown green.
I touch the soft latch, lift it
Just a bit, just to see if
It gives. It does give a bit.
Moss rips, but when I let go,
Just as soon as I let go,
It sighs back, soft. It still fits.
I want to go in but want
Not to harm life that’s cloaked it,
This life that had to take years
To close tight its gaps like this.
But I want to go, to go
And stay in. To not be missed.
