Death is a Door

Death is only an old door
Set in a garden wall
On gentle hinges it gives, at dusk
When the thrushes call
Along the lintel are green leaves
Beyond the light lies still;
Very willing and weary feet
Go over that sill
There is nothing to trouble any heart;
Nothing to hurt at all.
Death is only a quiet door.
In an old wall.

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Posted on January 7, 2011, in Borrowed Rymes and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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