She was no more than a child of four
When she strained to hear behind the door,
Muffled noises from her mother's room
Whispered words, benign, did bloom.
Giggles, grinding, secrets shared
Another friend from work, who cared,
A dinner guest, who gave her flowers
Another one who stayed for hours.
Behind the door soft silent moans
Erupted into garbled groans,
Then suddenly dead silence fell
Behind the door, the door to hell.
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| Writing Prompt |
Write a poem that describes what is behind the door. Any type of poetry welcomed. |
Author Notes
Thanks to Alex Ehrhardt. No, this poem is not auto-biographical.
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