Friday, November 29, 2013

The Gates





The gates have been closed -
I cannot see them but they stand
fortress-fashion, arms folded on their chests,
resolute, hard lipped and icy in the black
smoke of night, & they are there;
forgotten is the delusional pastoral, ivied
cottage spangled by sunlight, foolish under
scudding white clouds, rhapsodic with wading birds.
It has closed in, down - apocolpyse of soul,
shrouded in black, the world has turned to scythes
skimming streams to drybed, silent save for flapping
wings, raven black on black in ominous pitch.
I reach out, step forward - eyeless in the fog -
body slammed open against closed gates.

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