Dim witted pupils born of ignorance,
Long shadows loom to weave thy blinkered veil
Blinding closeted mind to innocence,
Till hope for love nor love for hope prevail;
What sweet delight does darkness serve to keep?
What hidden treasures lurk inside thy door?
Wise Solomon was wise enough to seek
For truth beyond the grains of his own store;
Yet thou embrace the dark, keep it to hand
Lest all thy world may crumble where thee stand.

Look not with shuttered eyes, but yet perceive
For senses fill the void, bring unto thee
A truth for which thine eyes might yet deceive;
Inhale to taste the world thou dare not see,
How fragrant is the fallen petaled rose?
How sweet the apple fading to decay?
Breathe deep as autumn reaps what summer sows,
Let bounteous harvest spirit thee away
To sip perfume, fine fragrance from the vine
That lingers like a sweet bouquet of wine.

Slow shuffled steps, each footfall amplified
Through trepid corners of thy darkened mind,
A conjured dread that cannot be denied
As useless eyes strain urgently to find
Its course; Hark! Tap, tap, tapping at thy door!
Thy breath abates, thy racing heart resounds,
Thy trembling toes cajole thee o'er the floor
And pressing of thy ear, to hear the sounds:
A pillowed voice as light as silken spin
Whispers, "Open the door, I will come in!"

Fear grips thee in a vice, thy voice is lost
As thou were lost, yet now thou has been found:
What stands without?  A madman or a ghost?
What stalks its prey?  What hunts thee like a hound?
Thy eyes are struck by blinding haloed light
Beneath the door, around its weary frame,
As dark recedes away to flee its might,
Abandoned thou must play the hunter's game;
Down through thy quivered spine, cold shivers creep
And kneeling to the ground, thou starts to weep.

Look now upon thy door with eyes reborn,
Thy savior and thy keeper through the night;
Eyes crowned with sight like pillows to a thorn
Harsh punctured with each searing twist of light;
How oft' thy mind has drawn its simple form,
Thy fingers run to feel each knotted grain,
Yet with thine eyes, thou see it now transform,
A handle hidden neat within the frame;
What clever hand, what love of labored skill
Had crafted of a ring so neatly made
That in its recess, fingers found no thrill
To find it in its secret wooded glade;
Yet now that light is gifted to thy sight,
Thy fingers trouble not to raise the ring
And taking hold and firmly gripping tight,
Thou contemplates the actions of a thing:
Does fear of light reduce thee to a shell,
To quake within thy boots, to shake with dread?
Will darkness cloak thee from a living hell
Or bring a living hell into thy head?
Thy hand is poised, have thee the strength to learn?
Thy will be done, to turn or not to turn.