The Door

You stand before the door of rotting wood,
All lichen-mottled gray and green, the stone
Wall matching. You knock. Do you know the words?
The door stands silent, then it gives a moan
That sounds like clippers rotting in their docks,
Then silence from the door, the tumbling blocks.

You do not know why you are here, why you
Must find the key, to find the words which mean.
The words which woo through too tough times, are true
Enough to let you in. You're sure this green
Dilapidated door will soon be breached
And all your efforts to find meaning reached.

But will you mind the masters that you find?
The dragon summing all your fears may lie
In emerald scales that glisten, shine, and blind,
And fires of valencia will try
Your mettle, burn you, melt away confusion --
You'll learn to live by meeting your conclusion.

Perhaps there's nothing on the other side --
Perhaps an absent sea is all you'll find --
And, disappointed, tempted to deride
All efforts, you'll slam shut the door, your mind,
Refuse the secrets, say you cannot know,
That every light's an artificial glow.

Unless you love the word, you'll never see
Into the darkness, find the door remains
Forever closed (although it's yours), to be
And never not to be, despite complaints
That you are lost, that you're confused and hate
That you can't know if you went through the gate.