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The Door
The door was simple wood,
The lock was also wood,
Just a hook that slid into a leather loop
The wood was dark colored, mahogany,
The leather a few shades darker.
The wood was rough,
Knots and swirls ran horizontally,
The pattern suddenly stopped
At the small knob half-way up,
An un-turning knob.
I slid the hook out of the leather,
Hearing the soft scratch and moan
As the ancient loop freed its companion
A small puff of dust floating out
Of the rough lock.
I grabbed the knob,
It had been smoothed not by hands,
But by the gentle wind and rain,
I pulled it softly,
And prepared for the stagnant air.
It rushed past me
As the room filled with fresh air,
A few papers flying,
Off the desk, simple oaken desk,
The bottle of ink holding some papers still
I walk into the room,
Coughing slightly at the dust
Disturbed by my footsteps,
And watch the plumes
Float through the sunlight.
The desk is covered in paper,
Tired and worn paper,
Colored yellow by the years,
With loopy black writing,
Covering it front and back.
I pick up a paper,
Start decoding the old writing,
The loops and whorls,
Different from our time,
The wording old-styled.
But the words formed,
In a strange rhyme,
A long poem,
Classic but unknown,
Never seen by reader’s eyes.
When I finished reading
I realized,
How many hours had passed by,
I saw the sunset,
And reflected on my new knowlodge
It’s in that moment I knew,
How much the mind grew,
After reading old poems
Confusing and obvious
Written in loopy writing.
