The door is but a door
It could transform its shape a thousand, thousand times
And still be just as uninformative
Its locks change as you do though its keys do not
Knocking, even as your hands grow raw and bloody, will not open it 
Pleas and cries will not bring you succor in even the harshest storm
For on the other side the storm rages all the more fiercely and you must look at it
As it looks back doubly and deeper
Knowing that it is yours
You have only to reach, to act
Perhaps you will rest here, unready yet
Perhaps you will dither, inability to choose becoming itself a decision
Perhaps you will examine it so long you forget it is a door, not a landscape to know instead of knowing yourself
Not a threshold until you cross it
It could open, vistas of wonder and might before you
Unexplored except by your keen and thirsty eyes
Your hungering heart
Unless you walk through it
And even then, it makes no promises 
No guarantee of grand fortunes or greener pastures
No sudden revelations of deep wisdom or awesome powers
Just a door, after all
One of many, it awaits the end of your longing
Embodying nothing more than your own questions
Offering nothing more than you

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