Locked in cobweb and rust
lies that faraway gate,
door to an unstill heart.
Why does it hurt so to open?
Split the lock,
unhinge the hardware,
push it gloriously ajar--
Face the things that closed
preciously hopeful You:
Not being The Beloved
can still hurt beyond reckon.
Do doors, like velvet buds,
long to unspiral open?
J. Pratt-Walter
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