Paper Tower

18 January 2026

https://poems.culturing.net/2026/01/paper-tower/

She sits at the center of her tower in prayer.
She was given no door, no furniture, no plants,
nothing living and thus no temptation. She sits
and she waits for she knows not what. As the hours
creep by, she grows restless, begins to examine the walls,
to touch them even, and finds them not stone as she thought,
but the image of stone imprinted on the thinnest paper.
A devilish thought overtakes her. She taps the paper
and watches it wave the whole wall up and down,
as far as the eye can see. So she pushes it harder.
A small tear brings in fresh air. She falls back,
so used to the dank of the tower that freshness,
with who knows what pollen, comes in as a shock.
But before long she stands by this tear and its offering,
breathing as deeply as she can. She tears it still further
and further, until she can see the other side. She's amazed.
She just stands there for days, in a daze at the wonders
of plants and birds, the sun and the breeze,
but she will not leave the tower. It's home,
and all homes have value. But something
was ever unsettled. She knows about trees now,
and she was not one to forget. Why were there no trees
in her tower, no birds, no songs? One day she gazes out
and sees a tree struck by lightning catch fire,
and she cannot stay in any longer. She rushes to it,
climbing and climbing to the highest branches, where the fire burns.
She tries to grasp it, unaware of such things, unlearned
in the ways of fire. She feels its burn and screams.
As the scream leaves, some pieces of fire enter through her
and settle deep within. She has fire in her now, and she thinks
of the paper that was once her home, and she thinks
that all paper is made from trees, and if trees can burn...
She returns to her tower and dares not touch the walls
with burning hands. She sits quieter than ever, dead center,
not sure how to pray anymore. But the fire keeps on burning.
She does not mean to, but soon her heat expands and ignites the walls
in a holocaust of flame, as she weeps all alone at the center.
But the blaze cannot hurt her. It is her, and she was not meant
for this tower. She burns and burns and eventually
she stops weeping. She rises and goes to the original tear.
She sees something written that calms the flame. What was it?
A map of some islands in the Aegean? A few lines of poetry?
The words of a long-dead philosopher? Whatever it was, she knows now
that the walls had been made from things meant to move.
So she goes out in search of a place where her fire can burn.

--

She doesn't find one, not for a long time, and she feels
the danger of hunger, the pang of thirst. She returns to the tower
and papers over paper with paper. She puts out her fire,
or tries to...at least she manages to heal and dwell
with some potted plants and a bit of dancing.
But this is no longer a home for her, if it ever was.
She needs another to knock on her door.

--

He came with a torch and instructions on how to use it.
He knew the way to a place where all fire is admired.
He offered to show her and waited until she was ready.

They went together.
Some say they lived happily ever after.