Doors and Entrances
by Odin Roark

How telling
one's 3-Act duration,
entrances never made,
hesitations made permanent,
some by regret,
others by wise caution heeded.

As children,
we challenged drama's closed doors.

Many the time.
parental forbiddance
deterred admissions,
touching the knob only,
never pulling,
never pushing.

Today,
we carry decorative memories.

The shiny brass,
cold porcelain,
grating filigree of levers never turned,
fear remaining often in the wings.

So many scenes behind us.

Doors urged ajar.

Others slammed shut.

Still others, but memories of inaction

What if…
haunts.

If only…
taunts.

Tomorrow's auditions
continue to beckon.

Perhaps it wise to accept
the world's stage,
care not of right and wrong,
pleasure from pain,
future or past,
only risks embraced,
not passed by.

Doorways one approaches
will forever greet with the question
to open,
or not,
Retreat,
or stay.

Such remains life's many portals.

To enter.

To exit.

Conundrum's sole joy.

Time's quintessential game.

There will always be a gilded entrance,
questioning one's particular play as finished,
or merely an in between pause,
another of those anxious intermissions.