“A fresh way of being in this world”: a poem

A fresh way of being in this world

Life is a room with golden walls

and many doors,

some ornate with brass fittings,

others wooden with simple handles,

some with hinges rusted tight

from disuse or avoidance,

others with latches so loose

one must only look at them

and they fly open, luring.

There are signs above many,

flashing lights, scraps of paper,

chalk scratches on the frame,

encouragements and even warnings

from other travelers whose feet

have worn the thresholds smooth.

Some have been widened so much

to accommodate the throngs of people

who mindlessly rush through

like cattle being herded,

they barely resemble doors at all.

In those moments when my soul

is searching, late at night

with a candle in hand,

I find myself with my ear

pressed to the wall, eyes closed,

tapping my knuckles on the stones,

listening for a hollow space,

a door long sealed and forgotten,

or perhaps not yet dreamed,

a new possibility for

a fresh way of being in this world.

Stuart