Poem #4: Doors

I once knew a girl who knew no doors.

She stayed in a small, box house

with windows and shutters

but no doors.

The walls were smooth and seamless

flowing into each other

like one stroke of a paintbrush.

She lived out her days

happy and alone

talking to the ceiling

laughing at the clouds outside her window.

She did not wish to leave

the world she had known

the world she had loved and lived in for so long.

She did not wonder at the moon or the stars

nor the grass so green

or the lake so blue.

Sometimes she stared at the people

who passed by

busy and chatting to each other

and wished for another

to share her solitude.

But she would not leave her little home

without doors.

Sometimes she screamed at her pastel walls

and banged on the glass of the window

but the passersby looked at her

and whispered in low voices to their children

herding them away

at a pace too quick for their tiny legs.

So she learned to love the sturdy walls

and her home without doors

for she had no other choice.

And later when the fire of battle raged through the streets

the people ran to her house

banging and screaming

begging to be let in.

But alas, there were no doors.

And later still when the armed soldiers threatened

and yelled to be let in

she looked on with indifference

because here in her home

there were no doors.