Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 39
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House of Stairs

The abyss is tiered.
I stand on the top step
barefoot, warm white
beneath, steps stretched
into eventual darkness.
The floor is smooth marble?
porcelain? Behind me,
to my sides, only black.
Nowhere to go but down.
One step, the next, the next,
the next, and the darkness
at the bottom never changes,
only moves. Around me
the sound of other
footsteps. Other walkers
who stare into the dark
and go down, down farther.
I pull my gaze away, look up:
thousands of walkers
on every endless step all stare
and march in line,
synchronized somnambulists.
My eyes drift back to the center,
to the dark. I wonder when
we'll all hit bottom.

        Robert Beveridge