**People Are Still Opening Portals**

In the twilight hour, with the sun bowing low,
people stand on the edges of existence,
hands lifted in supplication,
threads of the ancient weaving around them like silken whispers.
Every heartbeats sends ripples through the air,
a collective thrum, a cosmic echo,
as if the very universe remembers,
before the dawn of time,
when stars were birthed
from the breath of creation.

Among the rustling leaves and the sighing winds,
a child discovers a door, one unseen,
hidden behind ordinary walls,
the paint peeling, a memory fading.
With wide eyes and innocent faith,
they press their small palm against the cool surface,
and the wood exhales—
splintered shards falling away like burdens lifted.

From this doorway spills colors unheard and dreams unmapped,
echoes of laughter, shadows of thoughts
dancing in rhythms only the brave can embrace.
Each portal carved by hands steady in vision,
whispers laced with the salt of the sea,
and laughter carried through the valleys of forgotten realms.

The elders gather, their wisdom like leaves in autumn,
vintage knowledge spilling through cracks,
each wrinkle a testament to battles fought
with silken words and benevolent intent.
They speak of sunlit paths woven through seasons,
where the past meets the future,
and the present holds moments,
delicate as dew, ...