I was told

I was told

I was told, by the old men in my pillow,
that climbing ladders was for the young.
They would sing me to sleep,
with notes that ring like steps, until I,
as young men often do,
would stumble with unsure feet, and fall into bed.

Ladders are to heaven, holes are to hell,
climb or fall, only time when will tell.
The voices warn me of clinging to what I think is mine,
and for reaching for hopes that are too high
my head, is up in the clouds though,
and all but the echo has drowned, of those once vexing sounds.
But every now and then, when my feet begin to slip,
I look down at the old men,
sinking at the ladders base,
and think on how far I have yet to fall,
how hard it is, to keep this pace.

Of course, one day I will indeed fall,
past all concern,
like ash in a cracked urn,
and I%u2019m forced to wonder:

As you read this,
(the ruins of a feeble attempt to sore)
and as I continue to dig this hole in anticipation,
Are you climbing too? and do you (now that I%u2019ve fallen)
now place me among the old?

When you take each step,
can you hear me whisper to you?
Do you cry into your pillow too
when the heart plummets into black despair?
Do your feet burn like the wings of Icarus
upon the steps of that endless stair?

But no worries,
I%u2019ve got a shovel waiting for you baby,
and fresh earth to dig,
I don%u2019t know how long it%u2019ll take me,
but it%u2019s getting pretty big,
I%u2019ve got plenty of songs to sing to you,

And I%u2019m sure there%u2019s room for two.