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  • Writer's pictureBethany Stimac

Door of Choice

I hear the door

It’s near, it’s near

I hear it

And go to it I will,

With great fear

Its bold and so gold

With a glow oh so faint

And smells rather new

From a fresh coat of paint

Its knob is of silver

And frame made of choice

I had followed myself here

From the sound of my voice

And I wonder now

Like I have before

As I stand in front of

This great new door

Why and what and who

It’s for

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