The Door

Each door is a different color,
Painted one way or another by each stamp on my memories,
Every connection made with other places,
Rooms of each experience
Guiding our lost souls as we stumble.

Choose a door to step through
And glide into a free fall
Toward someone you were then.
When the seasons pass too slow,
You return again,
Again,
The cycle repeating like the merry-go-round
Cleverly hiding behind the blue door.