Fair gore

I always thought of
Life as a stair – that cliché
Term of beautiful pens.
A stair wrought in gold at
It’s meanest and
Of shaky sand at
It’s highest.
Fall now, rise never
For the fall is the permanence
The balancing of the weighty stair.

So rush along – leave me
On my golden lowliness
And unending mediocrity
Surge yourself on to sand
Rush on to nothing
Rush on to the fall.

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