Golden Steps

At birth we are found in
whitewashed rooms; our
baby eyes caught bright
by shimmers in the corner:
the sparkle of golden steps.

With a baby smile, our baby
hands pull baby knees fore-
ward, only to be grabbed by
withered hands old and dry:
the hands of The Elder Ones.

As did the Elders before them,
they tell stories spun from the
verses of The Great Rulebook:

Touch not the golden stairs.
The warmth, the light are but
rancid lies, empty promises.
Climb them and you will fall.
You will break every part of you.

Young and afraid we run into
arms rough as papyrus. They
lead us to the Grand Machine
where we are turned into cogs.
Ka-chunk, ka-chink, klang.

The years pass in fast forward
blur without colour, scattering
the sands of time which settle
over the golden steps like dust.
We cannot tell the difference.

But don’t forget –
Please, never forget –
We all have wings no one can see.
They can take us anywhere, as high as we want.
As grey as they may now seem, those steps will always be our

Golden Steps.

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