A staircase always goes down, never up.

Winged bats and books snatching up dreams as they pass by
And you would think it was a hunt
But it’s not.
Accidental destruction, we have to make up stories
To tell us otherwise.
Stories, fiction, blurry tapestry on blank walls all around.

I hear the huat huat of tiled feet always forward going
Or stop or go, nothing else,
Why is there nothing else?