turned away by a gatekeeper

that kept mumbling: it is finished.

his undulant motions shadowed

the valley, and wore down his

features.

so that the mind may seize upon

itself, and cast deeply hid images--

i wanted to spit in his face.

he had no right to utter such finality,

all the while barring my passage.

by the fires that cook what stones have

bludgeoned, i went at him with all

that's finished...