The Decadent Graveyard

bolts fastened to brick walls loosely dangling and creaking underweight that needs grounding,
every step taken pulls down on dangling wooden boards, lumber spines that broke this countries back,

yet these are the smallest steps we take lifts from,
where support shapes from difficulties and craftsmanship,
gathered twine and fibrous systems
held together interwoven complexities, holding out and holding on,
braids in threads only learned in high quantities and capacities
in numbers and quality,
keep it together,
"keep it together"

I look at the ladder and see labor, I look at the ladder and see years
of sweat and of tweaking and of fine tuning,
I see process.

I see growth from someone who has claimed to stop since the age of 13,
I'm 5'8 and still require some lifting, baffled by how we get high and remain low,
or how we seek to be planted and only find it when others may think I'm digging myself the most shallow of graves.

But I wanted this one where the roses will never die,where there's always more to feed, where the names of the days repeat each week and we stay stagnant except for our altitude,
and I've waited far too long for this
in a bleak, expansive, sort of way.

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