The Door Poem by Pankajam Kottarath

Opened and closed from outside
you don’t have the key,
feel insecure inside,
sleep, a fruit hanging high.

Can’t lean on its iron bars,
and stare at the distant stars
remembering people
who loved even your shadow.

Separates those march outside
and those crumpled inside
like old cloths,
uniforms and numbers differ.

Thoughts sneak through the high walls
except those of the fateful day
that clot in your memory
like souring milk.

The door does its job faithfully.