Revolving Door

The clock ticks down the day,
How much longer I have to wait,
For the revolving door to make its final spin.
Around it goes in a shadowy blur,
Its magnificent speed is hard to ignore.
The mind plays tricks on what is seen,
Black shapes take form in between,
It whips like the wind,
Howling and screenching,
Slowly, one hand starts reaching,
Seemingly ignoring the non stop door.
Standing in shock, exit blocked
And covered in a blackened mask.
The hand keeps reaching,
No where to go, no where to hide
Nearly in its grip, you close your eyes.
When they open, the nightmare subsides.

This poem is about: 
Me

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