I open doors to rooms,
walk halls with no end or destination,
through a house that God made
for me,
but left no plan nor directions,
just me to wander through its possibilities,
lost in its vast interior,
no lights but that I provide,
illuminating the immediate now,
and nothing else.
I climb stairs with no end,
enter rooms so black with fear
that I scream,
and run,
too scared to close them again,
then on to the next,
again, and again.
A house that God made?
So I was told..
but that was long ago
and now it seems like
the lie it appeared to be
when first I received the key
to a place too black to be
any part of heaven,
any part of eternity,
any part of an afterlife
promised to you and me.
A house that God made?
No, this place I wander,
this place with no end
nor final destination,
was crafted somewhere else,
by something else,
who left me here to die.
I ran from flames,
ran to here to hide,
and hide I did.
I even hid from God.
My hand grasps the way,
to another room,
I turn the **** slowly,
open a door to another room,
as dark as the last....
it leads to another passage,
always deeper into the house,
none lead outside anymore,
where maybe I'd be seen.
Yet I walk,
I search,
I will not die,
not today.