The Tower

In the midst of a city,

a tower stands,

its size beyond all comprehension,

and all round it,

there is a great spiral staircase,

swarmed with people all trying to reach the top,

which no one has.

Here is a man who has collapsed from the heat after only one day

and nobody around tries to save him;

he suffers in silence

as the passers-by pass on him;

they have so much more staircase to climb

and so they must ignore him

and his cries of pain.

Here is a woman who has been walking for three days;

her legs are burning as she continues up the steps

and she is barely awake,

but she can just make out

the mass of people who stretch in both directions,

behind her, down the stairs, and before her, up them,

and just as her mind gives out, she slumps down onto the stone.

Here is a man who has climbed these steps for seven days

and he is weak and dehydrated,

but he continues;

he trips and falls,

hitting his face on the stairs,

and instead of pulling himself up to keep walking,

he drags himself up the stairs by his fatigued and broken arms.

Here is a woman who has walked the steps for a month;

she sees only a few people on the staircase now;

she is weary and they are weary,

their sweat staining the staircase,

their skin barely hanging onto their faces,

and one person in front of her keels over, dead,

but she ignores him and treks towards the peak.

Here is a woman who has walked the steps for over a year;

it has been two months since she last saw a person

and now she is alone, alone;

she went mad long ago,

but she must keep searching,

searching for the only thing left in her head:

the always-elusive summit.

Here is a man who has, for eight years,

walked up this desolate rock;

he can no longer see

when the sun sets or when it rises,

when the moon wanes or when it waxes,

or when the ever-more-brittle bones in his body begin to crumble,

and as he begins to stumble and fall,

he wonders if there ever was a top to begin with.