The Two Thousand Year Door

I’ve yet to find the Two Thousand Year Door;
A chimera conceived from ancient lore.
Time grained into it with the years it wore,
Half life of waiting for me to explore.

The door would be such a wonderful find;
It is rare, unique, and one of a kind.
I have heard it has led to cure the blind,
But that was from a man who lost his mind.

Didn’t know where to search or where to go;
Asked all around, but only received no’s.
Not until I went to a gypsy’s show,
I learned under a full moon it did glow.

“But not just any ole full moon you see,
Needs to be shadowed by the sun at three.”
I was to search for the short singing tree,
And under their white leaves that door should be.

For what would I gain in the door I asked?
Many lovely things if completed the task.
Everlasting youth, overflowing flasks,
Rest of my life, worry free, I could bask.

Up and down, inside and out, far and wide,
I searched many years for where it did hide.
Perhaps boredom mixed with a little pride,
Kept me haunting all the countryside’s.

Crazy and sometimes wild, the things I saw,
(Like a flying pigs with eagle like claws;
It was gripping a small girl’s baby doll.)
But never a short singing tree at all.

I went back to the old gypsy’s one day,
In case there was anything else to say.
Another lyrical piece she did play,
Then she angrily told me “stay away.”

“You’ll never find what you are looking for;
Long, perhaps dead, six feet under the floor.
So, stop this maddened search I do implore,
‘Cause you won’t find the Two Thousand Year Door.”

"Then why did you send me to look for it
If, when you knew it was a piece of shit?
I would have stopped if I knew it wasn’t
All this time I spent wasted, were you lit?"

“Yes, at that time I was drunk, full of wine,
Taking a lot of drugs which were not mine;
And had lots of fun with the thin white line,
Plus, seemed like a good idea at the time.”

I have ended the search each day and night;
And now my life seems even more contrite.
Perhaps the ole drugged out woman was right,
I would never find that door in my sight.

Drunken bliss drowning in my own pity,
People said “what a damned catastrophe.”
I requested them to get away from me,
So I left the maddened, crowding city.

I disappeared in all the little towns,
To come across with a new place to drown.
But I never enjoyed my sit-me-downs,
Until it was under a tree so round.

It was a dead tree perhaps three or four
Years, with moldy white leaves to underscore.
The tree began to sing “Two Hit’s, the Floor.”
I had just found what I stopped searching for.