At each new dawning of the day,
our shackles turned to dust,
we rise from bed and check the door
in case it’s turned to rust;
and finding perhaps a loose hinge
or screws worn down and stripped,
we throw our weight against the seam
where new daylight has slipped.
The door cracks open, and we sprawl
out in the joining hall
that through our window seemed so vast
but really is quite small —
for it is just another cage,
a slightly different cell;
and after a few moments’ rest
it becomes hard to tell
if where we are and where we’ve been
are very much the same,
or if the move we just accomplished
will affect the game.
The light begins to fade, at length,
and we begin to sense
that each room we have passed through
is illusion and pretense,
that the rough walls are paper thin —
in fact, they’re barely there.
We could walk through and out
with just a single breath of air.
But reaching that epiphany
we do not grasp for more,
just sleep, and dream of getting past
tomorrow’s brand new door.
07 JAN 2004