ChatGPT:
Along the hall of passing years,
Stand doors half-lit by hopes and fears.
Some I pushed, and light poured through,
Some I left - and never knew.
Each unopened door will stay,
A silent witness to the day
I chose the comfort of the known,
And left the path I might have grown.
They do not close, they do not fade,
They whisper softly, self-unmade.
Not regret, but something near,
A quiet 'what if' in the ear.
And so I walk, yet still I see,
Those doors that wait inside of me.
Not all need opening - but a few
Still call my hand to follow through.
