Door #1?


There was something about the door that offended her. It was ugly, a blunt object, hewn out of a slab of oak. In high summer, it was warm to the touch, almost flesh-like in texture. Even in July, the hardness and solidity of the wood affronted her. That she didnít know what was behind the door made it even worse.

January 11, 2010
© Anne Westlund

Poetry by Anne Westlund The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2010-01-24 at 05:22

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