home

Closed windows

Inside our homes
our hives
we live together
alone
sampling every now
and then
a taste we do not
like

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The house with the red door

I drove past your house, I missed it completely. The door was blue you see.

Doubling back I knocked on the door, it sounded different. The thud a bit duller, the wood softer.

Shadows moved behind the glass, silhouettes of familiar faces.

A sigh exhaled. All was well. Except that door.

Even now years later I look for the red, the beacon of hope.

Even now I drive past. Thrown by that door of misdirection.