The Door

At the end of the corridor,
There is a dark wooden door.
It has a key hole that has been covered
From the other side.
It has no knob, this door,
Nor handle, nor design;
It is merely a slab of wood
With worn edges. 
The key to this door,
It was lost long ago;
The keeper did not save the key.
At the end of the corridor
The door remains untouched,
Unopened, unused, unnoticed,
Slowly rotting away
As moisture consumes it,
Bit by bit.
 

The End

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