The Tax Collector
The floor beneath the stairs is starting to retreat
The pitch black of the oakwood ceiling shadows
Is opening itself up to the orange colored sky
Twilight enters halfheartedly,
Selectively painting light into dark corners.
With eyes closed and heart drenched
You sit huddled up in the corner,
A small area illuminated by lukewarm sun.
It is evolving,
Slowly finding ways to escape your grasp.
Fragments of it, shimmering golden, drifting peacefully skywards.
Scared to let go, You clutch at it in between your knees, floating
Between a thousand different states of consciousness.
Musical knocking at the door, and The man with the kind eyes is back again,
They call him the Tax Collector.
"You, again. What taxes need I pay, and why!" you exclaim.
With a slight tip of his bowler hat,
And half an inch of a knowing smile,
He steps into the doorway.
But you won't let him at you again-
You run up the stairs, now collapsing around you.
But he glides up effortlessly, his kind face saying, 'Don't fight it dear, It isn't really that much.' "
But I have no money,
I have no possessions,
I have nothing left to give you."
Another ceiling panel crumbles,
The sky is opening up above you.
"I want what you have in your arms,
Close to your heart,
The thing that you hold on to, my dear, so tight," he says,
Kindly smiling still.
"That is what I'm here for."
He reaches out his palm.
The ceiling finally gives way,
To the most beautiful night sky.