A key

Blocker, unlocker, two-faced god

Deceptively simple iron rod

Enabler to all but only the owner

Maker of kings and dethroner

Skilled to create, unskilled to use

Built to admit and to refuse

Open the mind, the city, the door

Seal them tightly, just as sure 

Always rare, often unique 

Easy to hide, hard to seek 

Sometimes plain, sometimes ornate

To enter a fortress or garden gate

What am I? 

Ink

'A pint of your best Abyssal Black',

I ordered at the ink-stained bar. 

The proprietor stood and flexed his arm

Where a blue tattoo danced with a scar. 

He took a bottle from the rack 

And fitted it below the pump, 

Then staining at the wooden tap

He drew forth ooze from some sunken sump. 

With the bottle brim-full of night

He wiped the tap and stoppered a cork. 

I slid my coins across the bar

And he turned his back, no need to talk. 

I stowed that precious onyx

And strode off to my desk at home

Where I dipped my nib in darkness

And scratched out this poem. 

Knock Knock

'If you must', the door-knocker speaks,

Its grating voice an impish squeal, 

'But there is nothing for you here, 

Nothing that opening will reveal' 

You reach to raise the iron-work

And could swear it moves before you do

You drop the ring upon the bolt

And silence echoes inside you

Before too long it speaks again

'I told you but you never ken,

Behind this door lies nothing'. 

And so you sound the iron again

Again resounding nothingness rebounds 

But this time bids the door ajar

You step through yourself and look behind

To find the door is who you are. 

Mirrors

Inside your private universe

Where all there is is you

You and your body

You and your shape 

Inescapable

Your face, your head, your eyes, your mouth

You look away and see yourself

Turn your gaze and there you are

Confrontational, uncomfortable

You begin to doubt your reality

Where do you begin and end? 

Which of you defines you?

Does every reflection hold your soul? 

You can't find the door anymore

Can't escape from the oppressiveness of you

Your sink to your knees as someone laughs

The flying machine

It was never going to work

The mechanics all wrong

To transform lift through wooden wings

He must have known

Must have played out muscle movements in his mind

Seen that man would never fly

To illustrate and understand

He sketched out impossible plans

His frantic mind pulling his hand

Faster than man could follow

Dreaming

Tendrils of imagination shift as I stride

Far beneath the morning tide

And lucid light filters through

Morphing dreamscapes into truth. 

I wish sometimes as I glide

That I could stay here safe inside

The pleasures of this halfway place

Before waking shatters every trace. 

Scale

'It's monumental', said the man,

'We build things big because we can

It all reflects a master plan

A city fit for kings' 

'That's well and good', I replied

'But look at it from the other side

My door's so tall and so wide

It dwarfs the giantlings

'It rises so far in the sky

The pigeons strike it as they fly, 

The doorbell's placed up there so high

That no one ever rings.'

'Don't you worry your little head' 

The builder slyly to me said

'They can use the back instead

For all their visitings.'