The door is always dark

Or never there at all

Imperceptible,

It leaks through a pin prick

Dense dark droplets of power

Trickle in long ruddy shafts

From the squealing tower

Like a sinewy forearm,

That shoots from the earth

Skin stretched across stone,

Stuffed into trenches

Cracking with lost elasticity

An arm that shivers

And creaks

With anguished sighs

You can’t go to the inner side

Where the flesh resides

Unless you have the key

Or you have the stomach

To tear the flesh,

Rip apart the tendons of the tower

And its master

While the spirit is willing

The flesh is less so

So here we sit,

Watching a tower

Constructed of shimmering shadows,

On the edge of light