Visage

Faced against a golden door, 

curiosity peaks and opens it more.

Step through, see atop a spiraling staircase; 

a vision, a message, and the arbiter’s face.

With eyes of white that pierce your soul, 

leaving a gap between, a ravenous hole.

Light bending around it in indistinguishable intervals,

for it is not fixated in time, space, or any other relativistic circles.

Away with these feelings of despair and dread,

stride forward and snap the threads.

One foot in front of the other,

gaze down the hall, up toward the “father.”

It speaks in unknown tongues,

and its words rupture lungs.

All that can be done is gasp for air, 

with any breath possible, a final prayer.

“Do not cry, little one, for your time had already come.”

One last tear, and attempt to breathe, 

before you part with reality and build into the grand interweave.

Alas, there is no warmth, there is no cold, it was all a lie;

fortune does not favor the bold.