the prestige

I lived many of my years through dreamscapes
masquerading behind many selves as an escape,
I climbed staircases in the sky reaching doorways
carved out of clouds, turning gold knobs on doors
Thresholds occupied with more than ever before
With each step I left spiraled shreds of my core behind—
(like Hansel and Gretel, except this time, for you to find.)
A cycle of desperate searching, not finding, appeasing
(I was lost, but never found)
attempts to quench my every desire
I had continued climbing (staircase, after staircase, after staircase…)
until my limbs had caught flame
and my muscles screamed, “Fire!”
I took the emergency lift to somewhere new
up, up, and away to get an angel’s eye view
of the staircase I spent my life climbing:                      (on my hands and feet)
It was nothing more than a Penrose prestige
producing faux illusions of successes achieved.
(If I had any blood left, it would curdle)
This epiphany of horror
(or awe; to tell which, I have failed)
Illusions of elevation, I had thought I prevailed!
Now in regret I reflect at my life’s phantasm—
my own: daydreamed escapes,
my own: calculated deception
I should have known, (better)
There is no beginning
(or end)
to a circle.

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