Castles in the Air

I tread on a staircase of golden matchsticks,
fragile and brittle; in the eyes of people, poised to snap
and hurl its contents onto the telluric surfaces of the ground.
I carry a bag of diaphanous mist, swirls of clouds,
webs of hoary haze; a blueprint in hand, a mesh of architecture,
billowing and spectral, leaving a trail of pearly white behind.
I have no foundation, only the air, only the nipping breeze.
And yet my fingers work, gripping the chisel,
carving and slashing at my bundles of mist,
creating shapes, turrets, pillars,
majestic, grandiose doors and entrances,
intricate furnishings, glossy like cornsilk, polished like gleaming emerald,
made of the eddies of clouds I carry upon my back.
People stare, point—they look at the phenomenon unfurling
before their eyes, for I am building castles in the air,
and refuse to let my construction collapse,
crumble into motes of glistering dust—demoted from the heavens
to the desiccated soil.
Minarets of silvery lattice shoot out to the universe,
nothing supporting them but my drive to succeed,
utterly vulnerable if not for the fence I’ve erected,
of convoluted coils, tendrils of smoke, contrasting against
the innocent pallor of my palace.
The angels stare, point—they look at the phenomenon unfurling
within the depths of their territory; for I am building castles in the air
and am refusing to let them fall.