The Staircase.

Created with an image from: gettyimages.com. (Click for source)

Created with an image from: gettyimages.com. (Click for source)


It’s a spiral staircase.
She just keeps circling ’round,
unsure if her direction
is forward or backward.

Turns out, it’s neither.

Only around,
around.
Up.
Down.

It’s a solid staircase.
High rails,
and no way off.
Everything moves on.

The staircase stays.
It’s a rock.
A fortress.
A prison.
A hallway.

She cannot stay,
but neither can she go.
Either direction,
up or down,
seems futile.

Joy. Pain.
Melancholy. Gratitude.
Rage. Bliss.
Numb. Alone.
All of the above.
And more.

The staircase is long.
Those who have traveled awhile
sometimes forget.

The world really doesn’t stop
on the staircase.
But it should.

We can’t stop on the staircase.
If we do, we die.
But we should be able to
just for a minute.

Just.

A.

Minute.

And that is grief.

Dedicated to all of you on the staircase. Feel free to add to it in the comments. May God grant you peace.

Grace & Peace,
Tiffany

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2 thoughts on “The Staircase.

    • “Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”
      ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

      I had two dear friends lose father and grandmother, two hours apart. It triggered a lot – mostly deep grief and compassion. It’s a depth of feeling I haven’t had in a long time, but it all felt fresh again, and raw. I let it come, for their sake. Weeping with those who are weeping, I suppose.

      This poem came out of that feeling. It is my empathy, my heart hurting on behalf of another. I’m somewhere else on the staircase now, and it’s spiraling through open sky, green fields, and birdsong. I can hear the ocean somewhere over there… It is a bittersweet place, and the feelings come ’round again, but not quite so bitter, and much sweeter than it was.

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