Revolving Window, 1st draft – poem – 14 March 2020

Regret is how a man
can drown
without getting wet,
Fear is the lie,
that we’ll survive,
If we just do our best;
Hope is the bet,
we make that yet,
we’ll glimpse the other side.
A summer breeze,
that stirs the leaves,
In a tempest as it climbs.

Into the waste of empty space,
beneath a star-strewn sky
In our distress we seek redress,
Silence gives no reply;
So in our longing for belonging,
We take this as a sign;
For if we heard,
these whispered words
we’d hear time ticking by.

We forget that never yet
has one returned from there –
the revolving doorway,
empty stairs –
the garden tended is not there;
What lies behind that curtain fine
we can never be quite certain;
Take it all in stride and hide,
until the hour falls.
Until you pass the revolving door
and hear the silence call.

The Siren’s song was far too long,
we never heard it all
We washed ashore as we were born
And wandered through the hall
Looking this way, to and fro,
whence we came, nor where we go,
were we supposed to glimpse, to know?
And such regret may help us yet,
if we can rise, as do
The leaves that lift upon the breeze
and settle with such quiet ease.

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