Climbing to the top
Blocks of happenings
and settle upon each other,
building a building
in which I reside,
in which I have resided
since that momentous event
when my umbilical cord was cut
and I had to gasp in raw, burning oxygen
into my tender lungs.
It hasn’t stopped since:
blocks being lowered in a way I don’t understand –
sometimes slowly, haphazardly, sometimes
seemingly carelessly, sometimes seemingly hastily,
carefully, intentionally, threateningly, soothingly.
From day to day
I ascend my spiral staircase,
talking to myself,
talking to other people through the windows.
Usually I can’t make myself understood
and I seldom understand
what people mean to mean.
Why not oblongs, or spheres?
Perhaps life needs the strict lines,
the implacable angles of cubes,
the uncompromising flat surfaces
that inexorably fit on top of each other,
never to change.
The blocks keep coming down;
I will not stop climbing
my winding steps,
not until I’ve reached the roof.