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poetry

Doorways and Gateways

A silent ceiling of green,

the canopy curves over the

head of the hunched figure hurrying below.

Feet rustle over leaves

with careful tread

as darkness gathers

at the edges

and creeps inwards.

He licks his lips,

a nervous twitching at the corner of his eye

as he turns his head from side to side

and listens.

The door rears up;

the end of the tunnel glows dully.

Polished wood, each pane of glass a watchful eye

tapered to a point at the crest of the curve.

The figure stops, falters,

shifts from one ball to the other.

The door leads neither out nor in

only through,

only forwards,

behind it the tunnel of green has closed

like the mouth of a beast.

The bricks in the wall of the arch of the door lay sealed,

one on top of the other

like bodies in a mass grave.

To knock

or to wait?

It grasps the handle and

pushes with all of its weight

on the body of Time itself.

Our void,

the black that swallows,

the cage that encloses,

not beginning or ending

or feeling or willing.

The break

then the fall.

By annaputsover

Translator and English tutor

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