lamingtons

take the ladder to the grotto in the sky. read the memories and markings on the wall. epiphanies and nonsense. choose life and tomorrow and funeral food. etchings still concealed within the timber of the treehouse, as hard to reach as ever. my taxpayer funds build playgrounds at home and bomb schools on my phone. admire the porthole view and wonder how many children could be fed with the rubber turf alone. I picture myself falling from the rope on the journey up into broken bones and bed rest. no doubt I’ll slip up sometime soon. what am I if not forever caught between mistakes and mystic accidents?