The Neophyte

Gauze layers sway thickly, clouding the true
it takes trust to tear the veil, stare through.
Ropes woven from mother-of-pearl glint in the light
let your eyes search the chamber for parallel sight.

You need a word to unfasten the casket of glass, a sound
darkly-carved enough.  You need thought to discover its ground.
You need dreams to discern the beam of wisdom
the form of your hand's rod.  The glimmer of your hidden

lamp will show the way.  So you sway, so you keen,
singing softly to lighten the wood.  Look down, you are bleeding
bleeding from the ruthless road, bleeding from danger
and the dark.  Baskets of grapes are presented to strangers

who pass this way.  And your tread and your tread can crush
that juice, a purple potion you can use.  Use it wisely, use it with ruth
and your road will rise towards you.  Follow it.  Harness your youth
to find the word, the thought, the dream, to claim

your future from your past.  And your sight will stretch
your rope will splice, and all words reach your tongue.
And when your hand can catch
both memory and time, then will you be armed and strong.

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