The Door

We go through the door
with practise,
to regions of pure splendour
and a wealth of wildness.
We do not know why we go through the door,
we do not know how.
Not knowing with practise,
we leave behind the desolation of slavery,
and sail as free spirits
into the tumultuous beauty of the dark.
We have no bearings and no destination.
We are wandering nimbly without direction,
our only home in our selves.
The wind between our ears sings of nebulous palaces amongst the stars.

As we sail
into the tumultuous beauty of the dark
we sing of our palaces amongst the stars.
We sing of our palaces
and we dream of our songs,
as we sail
into the beauty of the dark.