The gate

She stands before a taint-less gate,
Hingeless locks that total eight.
A bright full moon can be seen,
Her age in years, just eighteen.

Inside she stands, she can’t escape,
Standing tall, she bares a cape.
Weathered granite, dark from mold,
Gray and white, and icy-cold.

Lonely sculls, line the floor,
Lost in time, and folklore.
This place is filled with cleverness,
In ageless walls of ruthlessness.

So many things do fill her mind,
All the answers she hopes to find.
Many writings fill this hall,
A different language, on each wall.

Her finger scanning every line,
Complex spells she must define.
Glowing eyes of transfixed gaze,
Her mind sorts through this endless maze.

A numbing smile comes to her lips,
Reading through each line of scripts.
Her conscious starts, to expand,
All these spells at her command.

She turns around, looks at the gate,
Her words are slow and vibrate.
Each and every lock works loose,
Her power’s great, she can’t misuse.

The hinges start to slowly creak,
With every word you hear her speak.
Her eyes they sparkle with delight,
As she walks out, in the night.