Gate of Two Sides

I stand at the gate looking outward, o'er its spires of gilded gloss of silent hinge that never wither to the ravages of time. Long have I found haven on this side of the gate, even as unkind gods decide brutal fates beyond its hasp. Long have I forgotten of beyond the spires, having an incredible urge to look anew that which is determined by lot chosen willingly, not thrust. With closed eyes, I bend to an outer will, unseen, unheard. An old sensation envelops me and the golden spires are no more, instead, peelings of tear and rust. In that brief moment, time and place are transcended and the aura of once is reality. Faces pass by, seemingly unaware that someone beyond the gate is back. A dispirit of vigor, the grimness of gray, I see me, I think. I ask of myself how it came to be those faces of misfortune were denied, that hope and promise loomed ahead, perhaps, of a fork in the road that required choice, not fate decried. Then, I see the gate ajar, and know all may be called to view the other side.