I Stand At The Gate Poem by James McLain

From out of the night they come and cover me.
Bending over, I have stooped to this.
Looking deep into the pit.
I use the stick to back peddle,
and from within the pit the stick keeps coming back.
Perhaps it is God, because of my, Unquinchable mind.
Falling, I clutch at the sides.
The sides do not shrink,
and without thought as I did not shrink and did not shout.
The bottom puts out my voice.
Unrolled by the tounge the scroll is filled up.
Is it important how long I stand at the gate?
How important is it.
You are the master of my destiny.
I am the captain of your wise mind.