by Robert M. Mendonsa
Amber doors of dawn
Wake me from sleep
Dark as death,
To roam from warm, hazy streets
To the cold moors of dread,
Past the frothy window panes sheathed
From the breath of all these undead;
They march along the shore, unable to weep,
Howling at life’s cosmic jest.
Deep doors of dark
Slam flocks of skeletal sheep
Into a catacomb of tomes
To sit with pride stained that seeps
From splintered, sodden bones.
Even though they can’t sift, or see
Through a single page of prose,
It is here their knowledge will peak
Lest they escape the debt that all men owe.
Cimmerian doors of depth
Reap the strength
Of my driftwood oar
Leaving white knuckles too weak
To close the distance to the shore.
The water is unable to speak
Despite its shoals whispering of yore,
Yet this Stygian ocean keeps pulling, pulling me deep
As though it will endlessly keep
The last of my begotten lore.
And it is only then as I see,
Only then as in a murky dream,
That I see of the frame,
The fiery frame of the mountainous,
Golden Halo Door.