A divine door of the richest oak before me, 

Intricately made by the hand of a greater power. 

Desperately I search for the chosen key, 

In which to bring myself past the outer walls.

 

Yet here I stand with my head against wood, 

Begging for entrance that I've been denied, 

Though for my sake perhaps I should, 

For reasons that I may ruin the inside. 

 

The neighboring walls of the door scream, 

Blocking any chance there may be of intrusion, 

Although to peer through them would be a dream, 

One my tired eyes have been dying to see.

 

I make an attempt at a sweet, gentle stroke, 

Caressing the knob with a silent whisper, 

Brushing my hand across the strong oak, 

Until dawn breaks and I slide to the floor.

 

For too long the key has been kept safe, 

Hidden in some obscure place just in case, 

As if I am the detonator in a clever strafe, 

Aiming to tear down the walls so carefully built.

 

Though the thick wood cannot be taken apart,

My mind still looks each day for the elusive key, 

The separation between a door and a heart, 

But then, what is the difference between the two?