The Open Door

 

And we can never truly know

While in this dream that we believe,

Despite the scientists and shaman,

The poets and the priests,

Where “before the dream” began -

Or even if it ceases.

 

But this soul

(Or this part of the one soul),

When faced the ancient waking,

When sensed the hinted dimness,

When felt the weighted vacuum,

When thought the overwhelming oblivion,

Believed the open door -

Was drawn to its light (and dark);

Drawn to its soaring helix (and its despairing depth);

To its molten heat (and shattering cold);

To its quiet crescendos (and deafening silence);

To its eternal, yet fleeting moments;

And the simple complexity (and complex simplicity) of the master plan.

Drawn too, to the many sides (which are never right, yet never wrong);

To the hope and hopelessness of a church candle;

To the incomprehensible obviousness of infinity (or perhaps love) -

These like a sweet breath - that we expel as poison -

Like a crashing joy once ended,

Like a wave that leaves the shore, only to return, but never quite the same, but never different -

And back again…

 

 I… I… believed the open door,

and stepped through…

 

They sighed… and parted… more together for the parting.

 

 

 

 
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