Any moment of inattention
the old fears come back;
just the anxious occupation,
the feeling that
I have no right… to what?
child laughing in a field of flowers
before the dark gulf opens,
and so I turn back to the door
that’s mine and polished smooth,
its handle worn with care,
my cares well kept inside;
and yet at best when it swings wide,
another field awaits inside,
more ancient than the first —
forgotten phantasmagoric flowers
beckon brightly from the gloom
and, stepping through, it’s just as bright
as on the other side,
and fears were just the warnings scrawled
upon the polished door.

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