doors

The fingernail moon beckons in the hand of the night sky
Invokes remembrance - of the cyclic way of things.
Small, bigger, large, larger...then gone....always to return.

The door stands ajar - the hand that beckons you is mine.
Many times snatched from the slamming, just in time.
Open, closing, closer, closed....I always reopen it.

The door is unexpectedly open slightly - I am surprised.
Daring me to approach the beckoning hand that is yours.
I dare - whilst knowing I can dodge and jump and avoid amputation.

Stepping through, surprise is a blinding illumination.
I take my visor up a little, no decapitating blade in sight.
I loosen my armour jacket - feeling heavier by the minute.

The light is gone, but not the feeling - I sense a breeze.
A small stirring of breath that slips through the door.
Still ajar, I reach to push it further, and stop.

Your door now, taken ownership of. I have willingly sold it away.
With trust that it may not blow shut in a sudden storm.
With hope that it will grow ever wider, more open, letting in more light.