Poetry Menu

Doors

Wandering the corridors in a long forgotten wing,

I see faces of myself, hear them,

Screaming, giggling from behind locked doors.

They never agree with one another.

I wander the corridors of self,

Wondering at my inheritance;

At the new additions I have built,

And the curse: it’s greatest treasure.

In the darkness, evil has a name;

And it is I.

But by and by,

By some strange twist of fate and glory,

Afire, it burns brighter than the heavens.

This mask, redeemed at last,

A sacred story.

He comes from the shadows,

Brings gold, richer than my kingdoms told;

His gentle hand, hairy and strong,

Lifts me to the raft, and on

My homeward journey.

This one with the fork:

His lies are eyes into another world of truth.

His realm, the body, speaks to me,

In the serpent’s tongue, the smooth rive,

Of legs entwined, divine, his magic brings,

A union to another One,

A brilliance cast by darkness, opening,

To another way of being.