Wrong Ladder

So the rungs of your ladder became blades.
But you would never chase
your fingerprints as they fall,
and a rumour of identity will lie
on the blood-stained birthing floor,
along with your name and
your first pair of tiny shoes.

All waiting for the teeth of scavengers.

The metallic surface up here

has been weathered rough

like your face you have forgotten;

another discarded picture,

ruined by blind obsession.

The wind from above whispers only despair

as the portraits on currency

are merely official black-ink-pop-art.

Those notes of paper take up no space,

they communicate nothing,
but flitter a mocking snicker in the blustering;

worthless as leaves.

Echoes screech for answers

in the frustrated perpetual motion

of a monologue that wishes for conversation,

because all your companions

took their own tributaries

and disappeared in distance.

With hindsight we can see

that they took with them

all the scraps of meaning you ever had.

It is this wretched ladder you claimed

that has stripped your identity

in your autonomous suicide

of ambition.

And if It wasn't for stubborn pride

you could step right off,

and live.

Written Late January 2012. 
An allegory of a life built around career.