Herculaneum footsteps

where do these steps come from?
the steps leading...nowhere, they're
reality's staircase. going.
a dimension of truth and obligation,
a haven enslaving citizens in occupation:
"Arbeit Macht Frei".
the staircases of a trafficked life, eroded by the constant weathering of time,
alive.

you can listen to the rain splash,
you can hear it in the distance,
the roborant clash,
two wants of a soul,
divided, united
by skin, blood, bones and breath,
if for no other reason we must love:
we must learn to love and love to learn.
meld our parted souls or yearn,
in eternity.

you can smell that new rain smell,
the warning from the skies, that sense of winter,
the first few drops of rain make my earth smell like asphalt.
dirty from exhaust,
exhausted,
and tread,
trodden,
ready for the wet
of the season's first rain...
the desire for the wash, after washed, remains.

you can see the steps,
those left behind after the fall of It's greatness.
the staircases that lead nowhere,
left to guide your mind through the passes of the past and the histories
of streets;
of cobbled-stones and long-grown weeds, myrmidons of time and those deceased.

you can feel it in your heart beating: the futility of staircases.
keep your feet to the floor.
before they can ascend, flights to nowhere end.
when
your earth is infinite in existence,
let not your soul grow restless in the sky.
it is not the essence
of the arm to fly.
you will have no means to go or build, to walk or climb.

these stones were laid by those who reasoned to divine;
by those who sought to follow,
one footstep at a time,
the fatuous avenues of the abstract mind.