Is that why we are blind? Can we feel?
Can we see? Why am I questioning, as I climb with my heel?
Why mustn't I submit to lineage succumb? - my fingers peel.
The tar is hot, it takes me away, with scrap
Of flesh, left painted across the blackened
Metal-bars of the ladder. Stuck in this heated trap:
Descending lineage how must it feel to never-end?
Descending lineage, counting down the ages,
Must I look down and admire your stories and pages?

