Carved from heavy oak, Stained dark with age, Monolithic in size and shape, It is etched with faces Both ecstatic and tormented. He pushes and drives, Planting his heels To ram it with shoulder, Elbow, hip, and knee. But still it will not open, Still it will not budge. By the passage of many feet, The testament of all Who have succeeded And those who have failed. He pummels it with clenched fists, Claws at it with curled fingers.
Skin begins to shred away In blood-tinged flakes.
Yet still it will not open, Still it will not budge. No hinges to manipulate No lock or bolt to pick Not even a frame to force. Access is gained only through The sweat of perseverance.