Going Up

Still I rise
on stepping-stones
of my dead self
to higher things.

I'm on a hairway to Steven.
A Stannah Stairlift
out of introspection.

Still I rise,
or at least my body complies,
but my spirit sometimes lies
in till teatime.

I'd like to take off, or so I think,
like I'm swigging
Willy Wonka's lifting drink.
I'd like to cast off,
perchance to blast off
in a snakebite-fuelled rocket ship,
but it's a gradual ascent.
Somehow it's more decent.

Ground floor: perfumery,
stationery and leather goods,
wigs and haberdashery,
kitchenware and food ... going up!

You might surmise
that still I rise.

B.R. 28/03/2015