My Hand The Handle

I was afraid to open the door. Afraid of the handle and of the turn.
I was afraid to open the door. Afraid of what I knew I would learn.

Looked at the handle, looked at my hand. Noticed it's paint chips, noticed it's slant.

I was afraid to open the door. Thinking it's stance was maligned, but true.
I was afraid to open the door. Thinking I'd stumble, slip right through.

Reached for the handle, gave it a turn.
It's bolt clicked at going and finally I knew...

As I stood looking through that open door, the nothing I saw was simply the floor.