in-ways

Would you go down
the lowest staircase,
where the edges are marked golden
to tell them apart from the darkest dark,
where the walls are crumbled softly into unconscious,
spiraling down into the sticky non-center grounds?
Are you in love with dreams hung like spider feathers,
with caves within caves within abyssal lust,
like cities a-fung crusting the surface of abyssal in-ways,
where tiny hairy people through a tiniest staircase,
multiple eyed, mercily dull,
are going down and down?