by May Vine
There’s this gruesome-looking door
that’s arched all the way down to the floor.
It’s painted in yellow—
and a dark, harsh indigo;
its brushstrokes unmatched
with a rough pairing
of a peculiar face with a mane, locked onto the door.
Knock on the door, and a bright light might fester;
it might trap you; it could even ignite you.
Do not open that door, the indigo coloured door
with rough trails of yellow yore.
Children glean at the opposite of this door
There are stories of dark, twisted lore. For when you meet this ominous black glowing door,
there is no Christmas for a year;
all bad luck doesn’t disappear.
When this door is brought to your feet,
at a staircase at Everest Peak,
do not go through the door of indigo seek, for it’ll burn a willow tree.
A witch that cackles, so to speak.
Open the door; something frightening waits
You peer to the side of the forbidden ride, and find yourself where even monsters don’t reside.