The Tower
A Poem
A tall tower stands alone
the snow surrounds it like cotton.
High against the day.
Pale reef of clouds like billows of smoke.
A tall tower laughs. It is distant and canon like.
I have stared at it for as long as I can remember.
And not the laugh of surrounding villagers,
or life in all its generalities could stay my step.
There is a tower in the distance and I believe
I have been heading there my entire life.
What calls and draws me to it, I do not know?
I push the papers of my past about for some answers.
They are crumbling parchments of muteness.
They say nothing — and they mean nothing.
I search music and about the day
But find no answers there.
Fickle things. Fleeting things. Things passing by.
Again and again. The wrappings of mortality coil bone.
Towers. Fractal towers of arteries and veins and nerves.
Shivering against the distance it beckons.
The tower grows no closer. I step daily in its direction.
It whispers. The tower whispers.
Someone is watching from the height of the spire.
