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.


  1. Profoundly thought-provoking in our crazy materialistic world. God give us the grace to cherish ambitions that are worth living and dying for.


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