fragile
how many locks of iron
and welded chains
secure that outer door
thicker still than when first it was built
of dense hardwood and grit
it let no one cross the threshold –
not battering ram or guile or seduction –
until inner light began to flicker
then fill the sanctuary with heat
and desire
rising flames consuming walls, ceilings
and secret stairways
melting iron, bursting chains
inner sanctum falls to ashes
where wild roses bloom
© 2016 phyllis boernke
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