Dark halls

Reaching for the door as the handle creaks,
voices from behind the wood always speaks,
opening the door with hinges grinding turn,
the air flows between with smells of concern,
entering through with blindness of the eyes,
ripples of currents swirl as the mouth dries,
fingers grip the trigger with sweating between,
while they are all heard but completely unseen,
along the corridor and to another door,
touching it near the top and feeling nothing more,
turning the handle as twisting is never good,
a force pushing from below is now understood,
stepping backwards as the trail is now at its end,
trust comes from behind from that supportive friend.