by Noel Irion
it's dark as midnight out there,
no lanterns to lead the way.
the clouds feel rough–
no pillows float the breeze today.
we're stuck at a standstill,
halfway to heaven, the stairs keep on rising.
up, up and away–
no time to hesitate, decisions keep expiring.
do we grab the banister?
it seems to be constructed out of lightning.
or do we slide down–
a balancing act ever so frightening.
the troposphere appears to spiral to infinite,
daunting, if not taunting, to say the least.
yet our altitude's increasing–
we must be overcoming that wind of a beast.
Do we grab the banister?