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,...