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.
 

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