There lies a door with a lock-
its home on the wall, floor,
or even the heightening ceiling.

We spot it once at birth;
a solid color painted-thick or thin-
in the first quarter.

We meet it once more in love;
a pattern traced-bright or light-
in the second quarter.

We lean against it for support when
trouble tramples hope- crying or courageously-
in the third quarter.

We lie within its threshold when we die;
red fate string -too long or too short-
in the fourth quarter.

We won't depart until with the door
the lines between are colored silver,
and we await the fifth quarter to reveal a hidden truth.