The Ringing Colour of Gold

The door closes, a buttress against raging winds
peace settles like fine dust and through the silence grins,
the room shrouds itself in quiet and calm,
a smooth-white-sheet effect congeals the warm
theads of gold which spread across the floor.

The door's brass bolt has a long strong care
it wants to move, be what it was made - one jolt -
is all that it would take to halt
its gold head in exhaustion, and the door
buttresses the wind, its gold power

prevents enterers, stops their tread
across the threshold.  Stuck inside its head
ringing, gold-struck, it thinks its power is strong.
How can we tell it time will make it wrong.
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