She is a black door
hiding mysteries and questions
Impossible to read, impossible to open and peek inside.

She looms over her visitors
with a watchful eye,
searchlights spying on those who need to be let in.

I stand and wait, banging the golden knocker,
tugging at the icy handle.

Waiting, waiting,
but for what?
Answers?
A key to her mysteries?
A way inside?

What is so important that I need to see beyond this door?
A room furnished with comfort and warmth harboring an old friend?
Or another door?
One stronger, blacker, without a handle, with no way of reaching what is within.

The sun rises and falls against her blackness,
and she stands tall, powerful yet unresponsive, a grave,
She is beyond this world, cold to the touch, impossible to understand.
Yet still, I stand and wait.