A stairwell white
Plaster walls this spiral way of even steps
Twist down the walk that tightens in its turn
Then rise of step drops further than the tread.
I tilt my head and even knees bump top
The tiny box of twisted, plaster steps
Wind down from white-wash caste
To bleeding brown on browns and tan, the taste
And black with blood from others past lost in descent
Dried and crusted in the cracks of these crocked straits.
The light above has vanished
And I bump down this funnel of apparent death.
Cannot lift legs or heels to catch the last tread ledge
Only gravity now rules
And I slide
A final pull this spiral trough bent in a twist of fate.
My face wipes abrasive wall as arms reach where dim light once shown
And hands cannot grasp even the last foothold
Yet, I still hold this pen, this light.
You see its message here.
Unless no one has found the truth of this trap, this pit.
I write to find the sun.
Where ink-black still shows on tan
Perhaps to gain the white of precious paper page
No plaster surface walls
Call the readers from the grave to see this script
And wish it to this paper page
Spiral light or winding, dark descent.
Written on the walls of hope or discontent.
Journal of a journey through this lent and back to light by writing of the fall.
White paint of plaster, spiral way still holds the light
Of a window to the sun
Shines now hopeful by this pen
Would that you read and do not follow me.
Though free at last I, soul, wrenched from the wedge of flesh and pit
I join the light
My eyes are open now
I was asleep
There is an easier ascent.
Than pulled by passions of an underworld.
I see you read.
And know that rise and fall are on the same staircase.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
I wrote this one earlier in the year when considering the Pope's demise. Not fully understood when it came in, but the words and rhythm flowed. Seemed to go beneath the contemplation of his death.