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.