Concierge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those who enter here
need fear no judgement
I may make.
I sit here ageless,
though ages pass,
moving past the reach
of each new thought
sprung at their request.

There is a way
that some minds’ manners
fall outside the known:
blank faces outer,
universes build, flash,
creator-conscious,
next plunged starwards
to destruction.

There is its telling,
back in the sold
world, in stories
for the old.
Such a shape
may be seen
in the tick
of a slim minute,
by those whose hands
beat steel or idiots.

There is another way
to hold a world
by those who mine
a way beneath the rocks
where magma wells
from where they walk
across the crusted road
as birds croak from trees,
roots upward forced,
from rooves of ice-cracked
igloos built beneath
a heavy-bellied sun
as cold as iron
and as old as hell.

There is no way back,
let alone the telling,
locked in space,
shared with self-creation.
This one form
is never seen
except in dreams so deep
they’ve died by day.

There is a way to weep
for worlds and weeping brings
a cosmic calm where dancing
stars thread slowly through the
wind between the worlds
that can create,
but, subtly so, destroys
the human toys laid
neatly out in rows before
the watcher of the worlds.

The telling of that
is to myself alone
where I sit immobile on
age-stripped stones
beside the door whose
hinges groan under rust
and no wide opening.
Such a shape is formless
To those who enter here.

I throw a thousand years’
long curses at the black
backdrop to the stars
where time beats echoes
of wailing still outside,
yearning long and pleading
unfulfilled, to cross
this pitted step. Unstoppable,
the cry. It rises,
dies unheard.

The door moans
from nothing to nothing.