(no subject)

It's like when they flipped that room for Fred Astaire,
And the ceiling was floor and the floor was now part of the air.
A surface you'd seen around but about which you didn't especially care
Is now the here, and the here where you were now the there.

You thought you were climbing a stair
With the next step up and the last step down performing as parallel pair
But the step is more sheer than you'd ever dare
If there wasn't a trick to the blasted affair
Where you hadn't a clue you were going somewhere
Instead of just pacing your lair.
You look back and stare
At how all of the room could turn on a line like a hair.

This is the wall of despair
Just the place for a fan of the boundless and bare
Where even a light switch is rare.

They'll tell you to dust off your numb derriere
And say that for seekers a further square
Awaits if the requisite fardels they bear.
A second turn comes like a snow on a prayer
And a glimmer afar becomes glamorous glare
And you enter and bathe in your share
Of the ware.

Or you find that what once was a chandelier
Is a frozen fountain of glass up here
(Perhaps you bumped a light switch with your rear)
And you sadly look up at the floor
And more sadly at each now impossible door
And you wonder at last if the only thing pure
Was the liar behind the allure
But again come the voices that urge you afar
To that third turn to somewhere where miracles are.