"gatekeeper" poems
Leg off the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door!
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric
join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omega
and crocodile shoes
get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines!
did you give it your all?
the door tags
and pleasantries
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all those impressionable basics
put to the test?
you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade
old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the shiit storm
with those hostile priicks
and a slew
of insatiable
cures
there’s laughter from the back room
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)
soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)
might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern!)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!
headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final
shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line ~
this banter
is killing me
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen
peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack
folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, wars and loves and all that’s tragic.
A Father’s lust, an Uncle’s hate, a puzzling labyrinth, through the gate,
A Cretan born, another covered, a starry symbol, placed in the cupboard,
Special place, where heroes meet him, mindless creature, murderous ******
South in winter, man below with a bull above, placed in the heavens by two father's love,
A strangeness here, the seat of trade, in forbidden tryst, a beast was made,
Man of blood, tortured soul, stalks the maze, that stalks the pole,
"Stranger still, this wild pattern, revolving Seventh, Circle of Saturn?"
Unholy corridors made of granites, trace out the movements of the planets!
Life of horror, a soul of pain, terrorizing, with no refrain,
Smells their fear, scents of sin, raging actions, threshing men;
“They call me Moloch! They call me Baal! Tear your body, festoon my hall!”
In trepidation, to gatekeeper sent, a ****** start, for your punishment;
“I collect the hearts, I eat the eyes, I eat the liver, before he dies!”
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, life and death and all that’s tragic.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
old habits die hard,
but the ones that die the hardest have human faces.
these are boys wrapped around fingers,
these are girls painting their lips,
and here I am, writing love songs for all of them.
here stands Saint Peter and a book,
and his long fingers trailing over the words:
the first chapter was drafted
on the back of a movie ticket,
the second on a cocktail napkin, I think--
the third I wrote with pen on somebody’s skin.
the fourth, scratched on wooden planks
with a knife my father gave me.
and yet--
and yet, here they all are,
together like a leather-bound Bible
and the gatekeeper smiles
and says nothing.
angel, what do I atone for?
yes, these are my hands tearing out the pages,
throwing them into the flames, despairing
please, God, why won’t they burn--?
now in the fire I see movie screens and bare skin,
lips on drink glasses in dark rooms.
here are the things which I have lived and spoken;
the ink won’t come off the paper
and I will never ask for forgiveness.
this is the ending I wrote
when God didn't answer.
here I ask again, and only once--
angel, what do I atone for?
and the gatekeeper smiles
and says
nothing.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
I used to think I'd be saving lives.
But the truth hits me hard and I realize,
Some sickness is impossible to cure,
And promises of wholeness just a lure.
I make every effort often in vain
To send you back home better than you came.
But to prolong life often means to suffer.
So I have another gift that I can offer.
I can be your escort to death;
Be a witness to your last breath.
I will guide you on your final journey.
Give you comfort and numb your hurting.
Don't be afraid, you won't be alone,
For I am watching over you as one of my own.
I stop my tears til I can release them later.
I'll walk you to the doorway. I am the gatekeeper.
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 12:52 AM UTC
As I walk towards the shrine of blood and gold,
Reeking of the fallen and of the old
Unbeknownst to what might lay beyond,
A ******* in what comes after, a ******* in what came before.
This sack of maimed flesh that you see
A conquered ***** of the soul
This skin worn by all but one
A temple broken down to the bone.
Where once was a mind delighted,
A crown of jewels, of dreams of flight and
Of merriment and of might
A child of the stars that I once was
Burnt embers of olden coal that I am now.
Hence here I lay, astray, with no greed
No rage, no radiance and no leads
A destitute of life, fed and dressed
A king of the barren, a pastor amongst the wicked and unblessed.
And as I stand now at the altar of the fallen ghouls,
From suitor to gatekeeper of my own poisoned muse
Guiding sheep to a slaughter frayed
A purgatorial monument, unraveled and unswayed.
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 1:29 PM UTC
I wish to know your dreams
Gatekeeper to imagination
at the doorway of consciousness
you hold the key
for so many years I have followed you
into the cosmos
to return enlightened
a better man
join me on this final journey
guide me to the other side
take my hand into forever
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 12:39 PM UTC
It’s thirty years since I travelled back
To wander my childhood home,
To check out the trees I used to climb
And the fields where I used to roam,
I remembered the friends that used to play,
Wendy and Paul and Mark,
And the local bully that had his way
Back then, in the Boating Park.
We’d go up there on a Sunday, pay
Our money and hire a boat,
That fourpence each to the gatekeeper
Saw the three of us afloat,
Each boat had paddlewheels either side
You could turn, and stop or start,
Or spin around in a circle, just
For fun, at the Boating Park.
The Park, laid out in a rectangle
Took an hour to paddle round,
Once out of sight of the gatekeeper
The banks would muffle the sound,
We’d scream and shriek and laugh and beam
As we rammed each other’s boats,
I often thought it a wonder that
We didn’t puncture the floats.
Then over beyond the halfway mark
We lay in the shade of trees,
The sun would sink, it was getting dark
And we’d hear the murmur of bees,
We had to pass there under a bridge
And duck, for the bridge was low,
And that’s where the bully McPherson stood
On the bridge, those years ago.
He’d jeer, throw stones and catcall as we
Tried to get under the span,
Then climb and drop into Wendy’s boat
He wouldn’t have tried with a man.
He’d paddle over the further side
And make her get out of the boat,
Then paddle it back the way we came
Get out, and leave it afloat.
One Sunday I sat under the bridge
With Paul and Mark beside,
While Wendy came along on her own
As if on a solo ride,
The bully tried the very same thing
But we each pulled on his coat,
And when he came up, he couldn’t scream
For the water lodged in his throat.
He splashed about and he tried to grab
The boat, but his clothes, like lead,
Were trying to drag him down, while Paul
And Mark, they stood on his head.
Wendy had clambered up on the bank
Controlled, and well in command,
For every time he tried to get out,
She’d stamp and stomp on his hand.
The paper said it was very strange
That he must have put up a fight,
But hadn’t the strength to pull himself
Up out of the cut that night.
His hands and fingers were shredded, where
He’d tried to climb up the bank,
But the weight of his heavy, sodden clothes
Were the demons he had to thank.
I went to visit the Boating Park
It was just the way I feared,
I met up there with an older Mark,
A man with a greying beard,
He told me Wendy and Paul were dead
Weighed down with a sense of sin,
And the gatekeeper at the Boating Park
Had gone, when they filled it in.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses.
these battered men in parks searching for light
and my woman is no longer with me.
it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations.
opening the yellow gates to death
as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl.
we are children peering through glass cases
as death laughs at his hopeless clientele,
sad, desolate progenies in working-classes,
in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola,
or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan,
there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet
and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death
with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes.
death the changing of the gatekeeper.
death the telling machine.
death the dentist.
death my next door neighbor.
death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front
of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil.
death, my loud and loutish muse,
death the truant,
death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
death, in my hands through darkness and light,
death through troves of enigma,
death through undisputed clearings,
death the long line of red beads in EDSA,
death the gates of Plaridel,
it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure,
i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs
and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion
prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing.
through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam,
the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped
in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing
of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out
of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations,
and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire,
sound silence.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
There stand the gates.
Massive and made of the highest quality oak. Ornate, covered with runes of a forgotten language.
In front of this gargantuan doorway stands its guard.
A black-faced lion with a rust colored mane, a man's body, full armor, and a long halberd.
The Gatekeeper
"No man enters these gates except through me," he says,
"You would be a fool to believe you'll walk through alive.
I will not simply **** you,
Once you attempt to pass this line."
he points at a faded gap in the grass in front of him.
"I will break you.
I will annihilate you.
I will devour your soul
Slowly."
He begins to pace back and forth while hungrily looking you up and down.
Despite his having the body of a man, he still looks very much more like a predator.
"I have no need of meat.
I will leave your body for the vultures!"
He gestures to the pile of bones off to the side of the intimidating gate.
Picked clean.
"Your mind and your,"
he inhales deeply as if he were trying to sniff out a savory dish,
"Spirit!
Are what interest me.
When I am finished with you,
You will be mine entirely!
I will enjoy every morsel of your being.
But my mouth grows weary of speaking."
He looks you in your eyes.
"It wishes to eat."
He unshoulders his halberd and takes up an offensive stance.
The long shaft ends in a finely sharpened point,
Unabashedly aimed in your direction.
"Will you feed me?"
He asks,
"Will you risk these teeth for a chance at these doors?"
You clench your jaw in determination,
And take a step forward.
He smiles.
His razor sharp, impossibly clean teeth shine in the sun.
"Excellent."
he licks his lips,
"I do love a good meal."
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
You sat with Jane
on the grass
in the field
beneath the Downs
she was looking
at the sky
and you
were watching her
her profile
her hair pulled back
in a ponytail
her eyes bright
as new coins
her pale blue dress
and white ankle socks
and brown sandals
she followed a butterfly
fluttering by
a Gatekeeper
she said
where?
you said
there that butterfly
it’s called a Gatekeeper
you turned to watch
the butterfly
she had pointed to
as it fluttered off
down the field
stopping now and then
to land on flowers
I love butterflies
she said
how do you know
all their names?
you asked
I read Daddy’s books
he has a number of books
on butterflies and moths
she said
she lay back
on the grass
and stared
at the sky
you lay down
beside her
your hands
behind your head
she smelt of lavender
you noticed
you breathed it in
let it fill within you
don’t you read books?
she asked
turning to look at you
taking in your white shirt
and blue jeans
I’m reading a book on birds
you said
I bought it in town
the other week
that’s a start
she said smiling
I guess so
you said
I didn’t realize
there were so many kinds
she studied you
as you spoke
resting her head
on her hand
maybe we can go looking
for nests next year
when they begin
to nest again
she said
ok
you said
not to touch though
she said
just to look
birds don’t like
their nests disturbed
in London
we only have sparrows
and pigeons
you said
how boring
she said
you watched
her lips moving
as she spoke
her eyes on you
studying you
I’m glad you’re here
you said
glad to be here
she replied
she touched her fingers
to her lips
and blew you a kiss
and you did likewise
seeing a new world
in her deep dark eyes.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
Science holds keys, doors,
Black holes and symmetry.
Science is the gatekeeper
When it comes to facts and logic.
There is no place for science in the
Universe of imagination, science
Don’t own a paintbrush and could
Never be a Picasso or Van Gogh
No matter how many starry nights they glaze at.
Apr 1, 2022
Apr 1, 2022 at 4:08 PM UTC
Ah magnificence
how temperament will change
the world at large
for they'd abandon these cages
as force fields now presume
their quadrants in June
and search for those left decides
these pastures albeit unknown
while green meadows I've forebode
managing lifestyle as abridged
heretofore these days of being heard
that altogether here's my play
where inflation surely wield
as weird alienation might sprout
importunate places likeness kin
and then shoot gorilla not extinct
these dawns upon gatekeeper
meld, have brought Milwaukee Instagram
with certain flair now upstream
in these gardens is reform!
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
Dynamite on my magic carpet tongue
That’s the last thing I remember
And she, she was the boldest Aries
She led me out the backdoor
Till we reached a brick dead-end
That’s when this deadly charade began
Never knew love quite like her body heat
And the silken robes we wore became ragged cut-sleeves
And I’ve always had a floater
But these trails are a different breed
And she’s spinning my quarter
But it never falls for me
And my friends in the backyard are watching snakes unfurl
As they stab the red earth and finger their pearls
But I prefer the garden pool, it keeps the neighbors far away
And one tiny matchstick is the only heart I have to play
I thought I had real love, I always put my hands
On her bony shoulders, she liked it then
We all raced to hell in a golden-rimmed chalice
All part of our big, of my big experiment
But infidelity can’t be commanded
Guess I always had a pacifier cold
My crutch of loneliness transformed
Into beds and vanity of old
I pushed them all to sanity’s brink
So I celebrate their pink departure
Rolling round’ in candle wax
Scrambled tape and fear’s embark
Created a demon, thought I was Byron
And this little pet became the death of me
Perhaps I should’ve asked a question to myself,
Burnt my house down, and swam more often in the real
Too much pride to call out for help
Always too much pride
There goes a shooting star
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 5:52 PM UTC
Old Teacher
Lao Tzu wants to go;
he has had enough and he wants to go
to the mountains and to solitude
but they will not let him go
he arrives at the gates
and the gatekeeper says:
*“Old Teacher,
you cannot go;
write all you know
then you can go”*
“If I write,”
says Lao Tzu,
*“you will make a text of it
though the description is never the thing”*
and the gatekeeper says again :
*“Old Teacher,
you cannot go;
write all you know
then you can go”*
and Lao Tzu writes
so he can go;
and we have all these texts in the world
and cling on to words, words, words
thinking the description is the thing
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 12:51 AM UTC
The sun sends us life as a
coherent cohesive beam, unfiltered.
Our science has shown us that
all it takes to rationalize this
is a prism, the rainbows'
gatekeeper, after whose interference
we can see the dichotomy of
each ribbon of color, naked
and categorized like society.
A prism isn't necessary to see
that life is beautiful, any
more than society or our
minds are necessary for us to
instinctively know that light
loses something as it meets
the prism.
The light was too beautiful for
us to comprehend, so we broke
it down to build up walls.
We used the walls to build rooms,
and our minds to bar the doors
and windows. Society took care
of the rest.
The real breakthrough takes place
when we take all that we
learned and use it to tear
back down that prison
of the light.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
castles made out or dreams
caves & spines & sky people
places of purity and rites of passage
smiles, circles, and the inner clockwork
of nature revealed- size disappears
the sky opens up and swallows us whole
the dead subsist on memory
what is death to eternity and eventuality
dust and train tracks
leaping down mountains, young and brave
fearless poetry in motion at the crossroads of the soul
the womb of our collective vision
you changed as we changed
i am what remains of the sky
a lone gatekeeper
to the window to heaven
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
birthed into a golden birdcage
safe behind upstanding spindles
endless nectars and suet at your beckon
knowing only the showcase of your plumage
and the sound of your tunes
layers remain
between you and the grackles
painted a nuisance
yet they stay unshackled
only poisoned and disregarded.
still they know the freedoms
not found atop
swings and perches
dig deeper
until you find what lurches.
the gate can be opened
when you realize yourself
to be the gatekeeper
yielding what's mine
using wings of more than feathers
making up for lost time.
looking back at the captivity
you couldn't see from inside.
entering a new world
with the grackle as my guide.
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 4:29 PM UTC
Sitting and waiting for words to come.
Impatience my Gatekeeper
Nothing leaves, nothing comes through.
Gaurded so well,
the kingdom withers within.
Words reject force.
Truth has no manipulator, its master is none.
It darts and evades,
like the most precious of prey.
As the predator starves for its ****
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
The neon kisses the sidewalk below embracing strangers as they pass
in all directions none seem towards home.
***** sidewalks and the slums splendor Im a gatekeeper of despair and hard
luck just living for the bells chime to echo from the counter.
Drunks and ****** gather within my confines the outcasts of the night my people
seldom will I ever know more than a signature upon the page.
Moths drawn together attaracted by neon light.
Tommorows not a promise so embrace feeling and grow numb in reflex for now.
Are we not twisted from exposher numb from the streets brutal truth?
I count the hours a television for companion a bottle a often short staying vistor
who's welcome till the hangover's regret.
Some pills to drive my thoughts and a fresh *** of coffee to fuel my engine
tIme kills even the most unfaded of us all.
And through the night they gather some to escape the cold others for a quick escape
or fast **** to forget as if in a Halloween costume soon they'll return to there true act
of a life.
Embrace as lover's when there nothing more than roomates hey kids were doing great
you coming home for Christmas this year?
And so they like well trained actors reprise there roles.
But i see there mess allnight I collect the rejects nothing more but fragments
glass that reflect what they wish could never be.
If only we could rewind.
But life's highway cant be retraced so on we roll.
I collect there money and take down there names the keeper of memories
tattered wings fly none the less.
As for the women the far away stares are but shared thoughts of a misery
more bitter we drink from the same passed down glass.
Some things just don't have to be said to be understood.
The nights my watch my vices fuel me for yet another round.
the neon signs my beacon And the moths glide to flame with the turning of the switch.
Were all ****** up but seldom can some show the flaws .
I embrace them unspoken please sign here.
Tommorows walk we'll pretend to not see for we all need to feel
invisible sometIme.
The end of my shift bids farewell to my collected chaos tired we've become in constant
recollection the light is off for now.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 12:53 PM UTC
*Walking meekly in the shadows, avoiding nakedness,
this vestibule of self-preserving isolation, my 'padded cell',
has become my buffer against the raging tide of life.
This makeshift home has no place for exaggerated emotions.
Nothing comes in and nothing goes out; always the safest option
for the perfect existence. The gatekeeper controls all activity.
Shock, pain and denial brought me to this desolate place,
watching myself, the outsider looking in, as my soul was *****
abuse was the joker who played a hand in this game of cards.
How easy it's been to sit back and pretend to myself and
the world that I'm satisfied with all that life is offering.
who was I trying to convince? No I.
So many times I wished I could undo the done, turning back time
to where earthly utopia was intact, escaping this cage,
running carefree like an innocent child on a first new adventure
The hurt child lays dormant, but her will does not die,
she beckons and teases me to test my toes in the strong
currents of life's raging tides, seeking out its throng.
She reminds me of a halcyon era of innocence,
before laughter and confidence eluded me.
A time when I played, thinking only of the day.
Friendship, acceptance and self discovery have healed me.
Trusting my inner child, I gently turn the key, unlocking, tentatively.
I feel alive, seeing the light so bright and inviting.
Choosing freedom, pensively, I take one last look at my dwelling place
giving thanks for the sanctuary she offered me,
taking my first baby steps back into society.
Carried on the swirls of the tide to wherever they take me,
I am now Mistress of my own destiny.
Rebirth*
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
A lonesome threshold,
yesterday was light as confetti / from a wedding that
bled in thirty litres of martyred roses / How long are
three hundred steps from a church, to stucco walls
the colour of sorrow?
Soil, the tint of blood,
ichor of mountain Gods, deveined for lost embrace
of roots / Wind whistling away regrets in the dust of
liberated souls / Would it sing for her, embalmed
in the bowels of earth’s sanguine hum?
April heat, weighted with a dirge
of tears salted in ocean / rusting the trumpet
and violin strings / Who will tune the piano for mass,
now that those musical men sailed before her,
in paper boat memoirs?
The Goliath tree rooted in bones,
a giant on such sustenance / gatekeeper of souls
tethered to fleshy sinews in beds of solitude /
Will she be interred in fruit, as he suppers
on her animated putrefaction?
Suffering, twice a child,
once a lady, she didn’t stay long to be swaddled
in linens of pity, cottons of commiserations /
Where will I store the enameled chamber *** for
when I grow up to be her likeness?
Nightshades, funneling viscous memories,
trumpeting in a pastel wilderness, alkaloid racket
waiting to sound in the poisons of prayerful echoes /
When will they bloom, toxic with grief of a swelling past,
so I may sleep as soundly as her?
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 6:18 PM UTC
Where are you?
The crowd tries to bustle
the tickets out of my clenched hands
I cannot seem to find you.
For a second, there! a flash of you,
vanishing as a corner carries you away
I know you're near, but not
what's happening
Are you running towards the gate?
Or away from me?
Find a bar, meet a new friend
Steps 1 and 2 in a magic spell
3 sips, a story, 4 drinks, and you're on an adventure
while
I am the gatekeeper
The Fire Lord to your Avatar, the Sauron to your Frodo,
trying to trap you at
every turn.
But that is ok.
Fight me, triumph over me,
throw my ring in the fires
I'd rather see that than,
see you get stuck at this
****** airport
you have your own adventures to live
worlds to travel,
magic to share.
you are my love, my hero, the one who triumphs
over evil, the elven star to my Shelob's lair, the
gandolf to my Balrog, the s.h.i.e.l.d. to my H.Y.D.R.A.
the kirby to my Galeem,
the nephalem to my Diablo.
not just that-
you are
little moments
of light found in between
the chaos of time
You are
everything I imagined
and more
when my world was dark,
and the only hope I could cling to
was the idea of my future,
and perhaps the someone, (that heroes always meet)
who drives away the darkness
and holds their hand.
You are the one to see the world with
the destination of my travels,
the one to land with.
my partner.
but
not if, to you,
I am the gatekeeper.
and I'd rather be the gatekeeper
(even if it means you know what)
than watch you get stuck
and your magic fade
and your steps falter
and your soul struggle
to breathe, and you
hate yourself,
I'd rather you hate me
and get out of this airport
because otherwise,
evil would
truly win. and that
that is what
would end me.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
A castle door, guarded by no one
A giant padlock fastened around the ****
I pull with all the strength I can muster
Nothing moves
I try again, slamming myself at the unmovable door
Nothing moves
"Maybe it is me" I say
"Maybe it is the weather, or the position of the sun on the horizon that makes this door unmovable"
I back away from the gate to see a beam of light emerge from the tallest tower
The most guarded
This gives me hope
If only I could burst through the gate, I could welcome the gatekeeper with open arms
We could be joyous
And, together, enjoy the limited eternalness of our youth
So I attempt again, and this time the door swings open with a thud
Under my new found strength
I step inside, expecting to see a lush landscape
And my beloved
However, he is no where to be found
And the courtyard is barren
While I search for my gatekeeper I find his study
Filled with books and books of the struggles of his life
But no book containing the answers to his problems
This makes my heart drop as I learn of my gatekeeper's difficult life
With tears in my eyes, I push on to find him
I search in every corridor
Until I find the tower entrance
And embark on the rickety, unkempt staircase to reach him
I find him huddled in a corner
His eyes, red and tiresome from worry
As soon as my gatekeeper sees me
He falls into my arms
And we wept
We wept for the things lost
The things hidden
The things that have past
And the uncertain things to come
For we have no notion of the things to come
But we can live in this moment together from now on
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC