The Tower
A boy,
Charcoal haired and pale skinned,
Ascends a never-ending, spiral stairway.
Red, soft lips are dried and thinned.
Golden eyes light up the dark pathway.
Far from the very bottom of the tower,
The crowded residence of discouraged and scared,
Neither light nor sound exist,
Any other than a faint dot of light.
Any other than the heavy thuds of might.
White bold numbers on one side of the curved wall
Mark the only traces of achievements,
Refilling the boy with indefinite hope.
At the far edge of the colossal pagoda,
What will the boy encounter?
What fascinating marvels
Will compensate the boy’s greed?
Controlled by the dream,
Obsessed by the imagination,
The boy ascends the tower.
