In sleep, I walk the Escher stairs,
where every landing loops and bends—
no up, no down, no end in sight,
just doors that lead to dreams again.

I search for home atop this maze,
a flat I’ve never truly known,
each hallway lined with echoes faint
and walls that whisper, “You’re alone.”

My keys hang somewhere—mocking, near—
perhaps beneath a crooked light,
perhaps behind a shadowed pane
in corridors that dodge the night.

The numbers shift. The signs mislead.
No flat, no floor is ever right.
I’m always close, then pulled away
by gravity that’s lost its fight.

Yet when I wake, the stairs are gone,
the flat dissolves, the keys return.
My little place off quiet roads
is all I need, and all I’ve earned.

But still those stairs—they know my name.
They call me back with subtle art.
For maybe dreams reflect the things
that dreams can fog, but not depart.