heaven must be up ahead and beneath her feet

further up the beanstalk i lose
the texture of your tombstone,
and soon i will no longer make
out its shape, and then the color
will be the last to go.

closer to the clouds it is colder,
i start to sense the concern
of vapor sprites, i must not
mind them.

my concern is to believe in this
overgrown vegetable i am vertically
conquering, to believe in fables
and tales of faerie folk and
grandfathers.

most of all, i have to believe in
somewhere at the end of this climb:
a city of dead humans, or heaven
to the gentler-hearted, where
supposedly you'd be, and waiting for
me.

2008.jan.08