Turquoise Door

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The Sentinel planted at the door
Swaying watch does stand
Where foaming sea hinged on stone
Twists beneath the hand
Of soldier, sailor, rich and poor man
Extolling all that’s planned
Yet within Sentinel’s plain design,
In door ward’s nested fronds
By order and precision drawn,
Deity’s voided bonds
Hidden in the useless lies.
Man’s foolishness responds
To hold fast there the gates of hell
Withholding from the land
An end to strife, mysterious peace
Adopting airs too grand
For lesser beings than some god
With countless vain demands
Lesser gods than ours have surely spun
More wondrous webs than these
Which snared in toil and in woe
Those seeking only ease
Of anguish, pain, and suffering
Piteous are the pleas
Mercy, cry the sacred ones
Mercy, entreats the day
Mercy, beg the scrambling souls
Mercy, urge all who stray
Mercy? echoes god on high
Mercy, given to my prey?
Olympus’ quaking mountainsides
Valhalla’s light at dawn
Nirvana’s sweet gift of peace
The Wheel’s release of pawns
Pale before the shouts of god,
Now from this door, be gone!

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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