doors

it was a sea of doors. and it was raging. the wind was up and nothing could assuage the onslaught of foam and wet, bits of splinters and an occassinal brass knob. now nauseous and bleeding bit by bit she hoped a door would fly open and swallow her whole. but they each remained daunting choices, one large and another more ominous than the next. she laid awhile on one, watching, admiring the surface.

its gravity, an anchor like dreams, she slept.