Ladders Without Rungs

They built their ladders to the sky,
rung by precious rung —
promotions, titles, degrees
stretching toward some imagined heaven
of corner offices and gold name plates.

But what if we pulled out
every step between here and there,
let the ladders collapse
into kindling for warming
our hands in the present moment?

See how the mushrooms grow
in circles, not levels,
how clouds drift sideways
through the corporate towers,
mocking their vertical ambitions.

I’ve seen janitors with Buddha-minds
and CEOs lost in mazes
of their own construction,
proving that elevation
never was the path to truth.

When we lay the ladder down,
it becomes a bridge,
connecting rather than climbing,
reaching out instead of up —
what freedom in this falling!

The org chart burns
in autumn’s honest fire,
leaving only circles
of friends sharing tea,
no head of the table needed.

Growth spreads like moss,
in all directions at once,
no better or worse,
no higher or lower,
just the quiet wisdom of being.

Let them keep their hierarchies,
their desperate pyramids
pointing at infinity —
we’ll be here in the garden,
expanding like ripples in still water.

Each morning the sun rises
not above us, but with us,
and every blade of grass
knows more about true worth
than all the corporate manifestos.

In this flat circle of now,
we find our real positions:
everywhere and nowhere,
complete without climbing,
whole without winning.

The only ladder we need
is the DNA spiral within,
already connecting earth and sky,
already dancing the truth
that up and down are one.