Beyond
The door is closed.
Not by way of thought or trust,
And not by any way we must.
And yet the door IS closed.
Beyond the door
All that remains.
Is everything that will make us sane.
Yet still the door is closed.
The silent hand that pushed and probed,
Against the door and all I hoped.
And yet it still remains the same.
Am I the one, the most, to blame?
Beyond that door,
So shut and locked,
Is all that I have wished for,
And all that I have fought.
Beyond that which came before,
And for all that which I have balked
The door is closed.
There is no key made for this door,
Or hidden trick to trip the lock.
The only truth brought to the fore,
Is simply this, and nothing more.
The door is closed.
No way in.
No way out.
And no far-flung way about.
The waves crash upon the shore.
There is that, and nothing more.
Except for one important fact:
There is no door, there is no pact.
Not one made by Heaven’s grace.
Nor one that Love hath put in place.
Not one that was made in tarried haste.
Nor one that bears a Godly face.
There is nothing there.
There never was.
Simply that; just empty space.
So to this you must beware.
There was nothing ever there.
There’s no way in,
And no way out.
With no star-strung way about.
There’s simply this: Emptiness.
There is no Forgiveness within the Halls of the Damned.
Only Vengence, and that which the heart has banned.
Copyright © Stephen Tate | Year Posted 2008
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