These are steps
and this is a wall
and that,
well that is a door.
Reach your hand out.
Feel it’s wood grain beneath
every one of your fingers.
This is not your door.
And as the rain starts
you beat on it
like a drum,
like the downpour on the black asvault,
like a large skin drum.
But it won’t open.
Not for you.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 
I keep thinking about this poem. It reminds me of one of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s sonnets (in theme/content, not form or style), the one that ends “A ghost in marble of a girl you knew/ Who would have loved you in a day or two.” All of which is to say, this is a very nice, tightly crafted poem. I’m impressed, and I wish that I had written it (about the highest compliment I can offer).
That certainly is a complement.
Thank you!
this is gorgeous. i love the title!
:]
Thanks Vesp.