The Mansion

THE MANSION

There’s no end, there’s no glory, there’s a slow resounding story. There’s no place to feel certain there’s no body waiting for me. There’s no stand of trees, no morning, there’s a curve without a warning. There is weird and lasting sadness, there’s no large and lengthy warming. There’s no heat, there’s no expansion, there’s no door into the mansion. Lengthy warming: sweet removal, sweet expanse, sweet and substantial. There’s no flesh, there’s no fingers in my hair. I see a tunnel. We built walls tall and solid between the treasure and the shovel. I see an in, I see a fountain, there’s a trail over the mountain and there’s no wayside, there’s no stopping, and the peak is wide and rocky. There’s no ceiling in the mansion. There’s no waste, no hesitation. There’s no crack of dawn, no morning. Just an everlasting warming.