Once upon a dark dream
Stood a subconscious scheme
Before me stood three doors tall
Behind them my fate would fall
The first was inky black
With a sheen that oils lack
Oozing hatred and despair
I wish not to reside there
The second was of such beauty
That I did not feel at all worthy
The door painted of purest white
Was too holy, too perfect, too right
The third felt inadequate yet homely
A simple wooden door stood humbly
Neither painted nor perfectly carved
Not quite perfect but seeming deserved
The dream pushes on, the stakes are set
One I don’t want, one I feel a safe bet
And yet I feel the pull of the beautiful door
I want to choose the one which is more
Which door to choose, which one chooses me?
One of hate, one of love, one of mediocrity.
I open the pure door of the olive sprig
I choose to have high hopes, to dream big.