Tuesday, October 18, 2016


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The True Door,
A Poem About The Death Nails

We yank, and yank and yank,
All on the wrong door
And vent our ire
Against its locks.
We try saws
To cut our own
Through those walls
That bar us
From the place of light
And hope.
But near
Is the ready door,
Held open by The Keeper
With the scarred hands
Of its deadly
For He-Who-Made-Entry
Always was the
Open Door.*

(c) Adron Dozat

*"Yes, I am the gate. Those who come in through me will be saved. They will come and go freely and will find good pastures." John 10:9.

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Beyond These Dark Lands
Are Edges of Joy,
Words of Comfort and Hope
Poems by A.E. Dozat
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(c) Adron 10/18/16

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