A thousand times I've opened a door. It leads me to a short hallway with a dark blue carpet old and threadbare.When I open this door and walk alone, sometimes late at night, I whisper to myself a question I've asked a thousand times: Where am I going? The whispered answer is often the same: I don't know. Or sometimes when I can't sleep, I'll say: perhaps I'll find a fallen star. This answer pleases me so much more.
Poetry Pantry #392
6 hours ago