The Ends

It begins with all white, in a sound-proofed hallway,
your staring down the empty eye slits of a lowsocket,
waking on the floor at the foot of the bright light,
blocking and locked hundredth door of luck.

At the opposite end of the hall sits a pair of empty pay public binoculars,
slumped, facing your way.

In the dead of their stare you marvel about,
until you eye this one door that appears to be both half open and closed.
and are drawn moth to the bulb,
head down, as if reeled round a gear by the guts,
inching toward your intuit-picked portal of choice.

Now knelt, yet not without nerves in this moment of mostly glory,
you look for the knob, and see nothing but healed shut keyhole.

Dax-strong in this dream you begin to cut key,
in the furthest corner of a clearest skull,
when you feel your kneecaps being nursed by a white on white welcome mat.
you tilt your skull to read "WOE-BE-GONE"
only written wrong or in mirror.

Your hands and heart full of edge, you lift the mat gently,
and there beneath it's omen embroidered,
sits an intact wishingbone.

You carefully lift your instrument of certain luck to the door,
and it slowly unclenches the scar seem set where it's keyhole would be,
and so you snap bliss bone, cut wish and begin to lock pick.

Until you hear through the thick of the door the deadbolt caughing loose.

Suddenly the fear black above your skull,
beneath your skin goes wild,
as the door of your choice opens itself slowly,
sealing off your face with perfect stripes of rising bone and angst,
of alabaster and pit,
allowing the bright right light of luck
to completely believe
and eclipse you.