Old Ladders

Through the narrow streets of the gentrified east.
I roam the roads of Shoreditch, its cleanse in final revolution.

We all have our place on times blossom,
its style and stigma a ladder,
protruding skyward.

Some sons are born high
inheriting trophies of graft.
Their appreciation for the lavish
spun from an elite education.

And Some are born lesser.
Their lives strewn at ladders base

We of the foot, we scramble and scheme,
to arise skyward and victorious.
Our loyalties tactical,
an image fulfilled through cinematic truthiness.

Though we at the foot are no lesser.
Our blood too pouring hot,
leaving our body cold and the nights end.

We are not amoral rudimentary beings,
attempting civilisation.
But children born to god without capital.

And to this powerless god I wish for all to fall.
Undoing time’s corruption.
Those earthed, undamaged by equality.
Those atop
uncaught by those formerly eclipsed in their shadow.

Yet the rungs of this ladder remain,
lesser beings clouded by those above,
Enduring time’s corruption, dispersed on this axis.

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