Behold.
I stand at the doors, and the gates of El and Hell.
To door number 1, I turn to the light, retorted and distorted by the tints and taunts of the polished brass.
That embellish the knob, with a twist of the wrist and a turn of the key in the lock.
But before I proceed, I am convicted by my own reflection.
Observing a bland and thinly veiled taste of things to come, beyond the first and most tempting bite.
Like the press of tender lips and a silver tongue against the touch of supple skin.
A feast for the eyes, and a thrill for the thighs, and yet shy of a greater substance.
So, I proceed to door number 2, a pale-hued frame with a frosted glass.
And as I knock there extends a frail and limp arm as I gaze, and I gloss and glaze over.
A drab and dab hand from a blank and bleak stare, from a mind of abominations and desolations.
And so, with a haughty grin I step away, and stray from the ways of my own perturbations.
Tainted by the mysteries of my own allegory, allegedly.
Neither the hysterical fraud, nor the docile and doe eyed tool of the gentry.
So, I now recount and recall my many steps, and turns, and countless permutations.
To find that which I lost along the way.
The Philosopher's Poet 