The Doorkeep's Last Carnival: A poem for those who stand and wait.

THE DOORKEEP’S LAST CARNIVAL

The Doorkeep

Wore a golden scarf,

Not yellow gold, but blood.

Night and day,

Flesh and bone,

Sinew and hair,

Nails and fluids,

Carnival creation

Passed this way

And that.

The Keeper of the Door

Knew nothing more

Than to open out and in

To whoever, whatever passed by.

No secret password was required,

No special visas of past action,

No important message to deliver,

No impending doom to meet,

No sweet revenge or lovely just desserts

To give out,

Nothing, nada.

The poor Keep,

Kept keeping watch,

Opening the door

Just so,

With a salute,

A hello,

Perhaps a smile now and again,

A word of encouragement,

When required

A stiff look.

The Doorkeep’s golden scarf,

Blood gold,

Became burnished

More subtle in its color

As each year passed,

And the Doorkeep,

In the annealing of time,

More and more sure

That this was not a passing

Pissing poor vocation,

Unworthy because

Unpowerful.

Control was not the goal.

The Doorkeep,

Kept the door open,

Knew the carnage

And the carnival,

The unending stream

Of human suffering and joy,

And attended more and more

To each passing soul,

Not rewarding or condemning,

Giving and receiving only

That which the pilgrim

In the passage already had,

Or had lost.

When the Keep died,

The old scarf became a shroud.

It was reported that the funeral pyre

Glowed with a strange blood gold fire.

Watching they said

The Doorkeep must have been

Wrapped in compassion.

The  golden fire, passion

Or compassion,

Was not a surprise to anyone

Except perhaps

The door itself,

Which finally was a portal

For its faithful friend,

A keep for the Keeper.

And with the Doorkeep

Resting in paradise,

The blood flame at the door

Complete in its final work,

In a final consummation of itself

And the door together.

And God rested.