Doom is the house without the door.
Insanity is the house
in which all doors lead to doors
leading to doors and doors
and doors.
Now and then
we come across the Only Mirror,
a lotus in that howling jungle
that is too wide and too narrow.
We tend to stumble past this.
Now and then
we stop and look and see reflections glimpse ourselves
eye to eye
pupil into pupil
and something in us mutters,
murmurs,
“I’m looking at you looking at me looking at you looking at me looking at you
looking at me looking at you looking at me looking at you looking at me looking at you looking at me looking at you looking at me looking at you looking at me looking at you”
On the edge of the jungle there is a remedy for sadness
that wanders like the Elk of the temperate rainforest
with a key to the asylum around his neck.
And he often stops to wonder
at his reflection in still waters.
His eyes black with passion,
a golden key around his neck
dangling.
A tattered lab coat hanging from his antlers,
blowing in the wind like a white flag of surrender.