[ground floor]

not enough to "tell the stones we're gonna make a building",
they need your assistance, your calloused brain, cratered hands,
made keeping pace with rehearsal wakes and misspelled bands
on their own they preach to that choir of dust.

[first floor]

your job, should you deign to move, is carrying them to the site,
to draw blueprints void of red flags,
to throw away the riches and make peace with the rags
to put down the pitchers and escape from the lust.

[second floor]

help should not, can not, will not, be on its way
you will twist and knot your spine until it feels okay;
a tangled web of limbs but what can i say?
the march here is long and gladly unjust.

[third floor]

but the stones have done their job,
fit together like trying to reach God in the clouds,
this is the part where you wave your baton proud,
and enter the home built from the stones that you trust.

[top floor]

here's a wide open space; many outs, many ins,
and they're armed with indifference and your steady heart -
it ends right here, back where you started,
limp on the ground, without reason or rhyme.

[ground floor]

especially not rhyme.