My mother

believes that;

‘When one door

closes,

another door

opens.’

 

I find

this hard

to understand,

as my world

has no doors.

 

In my world

there is only

a hallway;

forever stretching

and

never yielding.

 

My hands

Always feel

For doors,

the

refreshing touch

of a doorhandle,

the sweet relief

of a hinge.

 

But they never

find

anything,

but flat,

cold,

stone.

 

My hallway

Is narrow,

It brushes

each of my

shoulders,

pinching me

from

either side

when I

try to move

on.

There’s a light

at the end;

or at least I

think it’s

a light.

 

A glitter,

in my eye.

A flicker,

that draws me

in.

Like a moth

to flame.

 

But

I never

reach it.

 

No matter

how hard I try,

how many

tears I have cried,

I can never

seem to make it

to the light.

 

Perhaps,

I’m not meant

to make it,

to the

end.

 

But,

alas,

I struggle on.