SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE
Thrust from nothing but present in all,
and cantilevered as the lines, the rope, from
Heavens arc'd bell to Earth's darker Hell,
they step forth as one to proceed.
The clambering millions descend.
An arc-light from some street-welder's
dizzying fire, the length of steel reaches
all heights, and stops. Its precipice too
near the stars above, mankind's humble
servants come to an insolvent halt.
Beseeching nothing, they look up, reaching
for the entry or the portal to all that
brings them life. 'Come out!' the incessant cry
of the breathing : gabardine millionaires, men with
coaches and hats, fair ladies buxom with grace and
purpose. Up and down, they struggle. The subway's
incessant cry rumbles past and beneath - we hear the
roar and watch the rising crowds explore. Streetscapes.
Towers. Elevators. Stairways. Doors. Legal rites of
passage and purpose - and more. The fact that
Death itself has a ticket stops no one from going on,
or looking back. We are aware of this, and that - and so
much more. Let us not forget, 'midst the steam and
fury of industrial day, that little door which blocks our way -
the bolted entry to the other world and, somewhere along
the line, the flag of our living, to be unfurled - something
maybe to challenge the Gods themselves, or just a cloth
by which we are covered. Merely a cloth to cover us all.
Thrust from nothing but present in all,
and cantilevered as the lines, the rope, from
Heavens arc'd bell to Earth's darker Hell,
they step forth as one to proceed.
The clambering millions descend.
An arc-light from some street-welder's
dizzying fire, the length of steel reaches
all heights, and stops. Its precipice too
near the stars above, mankind's humble
servants come to an insolvent halt.
Beseeching nothing, they look up, reaching
for the entry or the portal to all that
brings them life. 'Come out!' the incessant cry
of the breathing : gabardine millionaires, men with
coaches and hats, fair ladies buxom with grace and
purpose. Up and down, they struggle. The subway's
incessant cry rumbles past and beneath - we hear the
roar and watch the rising crowds explore. Streetscapes.
Towers. Elevators. Stairways. Doors. Legal rites of
passage and purpose - and more. The fact that
Death itself has a ticket stops no one from going on,
or looking back. We are aware of this, and that - and so
much more. Let us not forget, 'midst the steam and
fury of industrial day, that little door which blocks our way -
the bolted entry to the other world and, somewhere along
the line, the flag of our living, to be unfurled - something
maybe to challenge the Gods themselves, or just a cloth
by which we are covered. Merely a cloth to cover us all.
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