The Waiting Room - II

He sits, his hub the centre,
wears the crown that fits his flowing hair
and many of his subjects met 
and many parted there.

Some won the combination 
that could bring them from despair - 
they kissed the ring, bowed to the eye,
learned what their lives were for.

Without warning, doors close,
fit tight, the click is silent in that octagon
with his old head revolving
and his eyes indrawn 

the swoon of time.  He sits
long, long, undefined yet deified, while you and I
go out, and in, go through, and past -
our one small spin, a tiny

swinging door in time's vast corridor
and still he sits, lips compressed,
his royal robes glow and curl
his jade ring flares, life-possessed.

Before him and behind and from side to side 
to side, the doors lie 
closed, beyond them stretch
their corridors, long and quiet.

For Janus-like he fed me
till his silver spoon went down
till I was reeled-in, was thrown forth again
till his head in that long slow turn

watched the one red door
swing in
and I passed down that corridor
to fuel his stare

and warm his bones:
I left there.  Now I grow strong and true -
my mind breathes fresher air, and my soul made new,
but he knows, he knows, all I am and all I do

for his throne is the hub, the central
place we all must go, from it and to it
all eternity flows.
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