A man aloof, perched
At the top of the landing,
Looking, observing, mocking.

Red wine in hand,
A sleek crimson like blood.
Shoes' soles bear marks of the skins
Of those who strive to climb the stairs.

The stairs he skipped,
He was told the secret entrance,
An elevator, thought to be out of service.
It is still in service,
Not for the likes of you.

Like Sisyphus, ceaseless and arduous,
You climb that stairs,
Like he pushed that rock,
But something, someone pushes you down.

Tears cascading down your face,
Bones broken by the force of your fall
From grace.

Not grace, because you are not the man with the red wine.
You are not graceful.
You will never be graceful.
You will never know such privilege as his design.

Hands and foot in a cast,
One step and you're making the ascent again.

Invisible hands push you down.
It's a cycle the underprivileged have yet to overcome.
I call it no mystery, for we know what's happening.
© Myth