I start in a room on the bottom floor and climb until I can climb no more Every room just like the one before same gaping cracks, and same locked doors

I stick my head out the shattered window to hear from those above me— listen for a secret code for wisdom in their spoken word

There are tales from the floors below of weeping from deaths final blow and the top, where it’s been told gold leaf frames an open door

There are those who climbed back down or have fallen from it’s golden crown who’ve met the same hooded friend whose playground is the bottom end

As I sit to ponder what I hear wind blowing through my ragged hair I stop and see a bird outside perched on a branch about to fly

White stripes stretch from its beak to a golden belly between its feet It whistles through its gentle song and soars up past these broken walls