The stairs winded there quietly in dust
Of ancient sap from forests of memory
Whose skies have survived in our dreams
Whose earths now belong to underbrush.
A rope greasy with hundreds of hands.
Some hands have not survived bodies.
Rope's grease shines like a black snake
Running down from its higher darkness. You and I look into each others light
On the higher darkness you are a light
On the lower,I am your light by the rope.
Add your hands to the grease of history.