Lou Schreiberg Poet I do not know?

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.

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