A place, detached.
I've opened a stranded door. It is wooden, cracked, with a cold knob. Inside, it felt like a blinded walk, in the dark. Where darkness, seemed, to be a realised choice. It's all I find, behind the door. A space, left, undefined. A walled containment of seclusion, away, from the changing seasons.
Many have passed by. For some, it is a life's cubicle. The door closed, from inside. Only, now nothing mattered. For it's just a place.