On soul’s cantilever

Look upward, the ceiling is not too dark to see its cascading door-less cathedral like chambers.

Wide curving railings of ancient wood masterfully bending in patterns crafted by Gods, inlayed ivory triangles and circles, etched in a galaxy of golden lace coils.

Like tree's root, weaving inward and outward, sometimes pressed into the chamber’s punctured and uneven walled domes, where whirlpools of darkness escape as if they were the smallest of black holes.

Railings, flowing into each and every cell,

'Tis an avenue I presume, to the place which is the ether.

The place where I must dwell.