The Endless Threshold Poem by Joshua Amaefule

We are birds who've learned the sky is not the ceiling,
only the first room in an infinite mansion.

Each nest we build becomes a launching pad—
the comfortable perch, a springboard we outgrow.

Desire is the itch beneath our feathers,
the way a river wants to be an ocean,
how shadows reach across the floor
grasping for one more inch of dying light.

We gather like magpies, but not for gleam alone:
it's the hunger to gather that glitters,
the reaching itself—more precious than the thing.

Our hands are always full and always empty.

There's a fire in us that consumes its own warmth,
a well that deepens as we drink from it,
each swallow revealing how much deeper it runs.

We build cathedrals with the bricks of yesterday's want,
each stone a promise we've already moved beyond.

The apex of the arch is never the destination—
it's the weight of all that leans upon it.

And still we climb the ladder made of our own rungs,
each step both ascension and the proof
that where we stand was never meant to hold us,
that the view changes only to reveal more horizon.

This is not sadness. This is not despair.

It is the paradox of being alive:
to be a cup that overflows with thirst,
a door that opens onto another door,
the question that contains all its own answers
and asks them again anyway.