The Golden Staircase

The golden staircase standing proud
outlined by a strident crowd.
To the noble brainchild have they vowed
that all their hopes and dreams be thrust
upon this system nought can rust.
But he drawn closer by his lust
for something more than plants and soil
sees the ladder’s gifts for which we toil
are but reflections in its rungs of oil.

Youthful minds are lost at sea
on quests to find the fruitful tree
and abundance, and eternal glee.
But violent waves now tip the boat
and ideas prove too dense to float.
And Davy Jones soon shall gloat:
Another dream for me to find,
discarded by a youthful mind,
left empty, tired, burst and blind.

But those whose boats are too steady to tip
do continue on their gracious trip.
To find the ladder and to firmly grip
the lower rungs and mightily haul
themselves towards old Odin’s Hall.
But soon they tire, and slow, and fall.
Still others fight on to reach the summit,
while aristocrats nod and weaklings plummet.

At the zenith only two remain,
and both of them now gasp with pain
as they lie there looking limp and lame.
They’re the victors! Let the bells ring out!
But alas! For they’ve proven now beyond all doubt
what it is the golden staircase truly is about:
Not industry or work or strife;
Not climbing to a better life,
But the status-quo,
failure, woe.
And the sharpening of the knife.