the last tower standing, but for how long?

pushpulls of beauty at the edge of all things, flower and dryweed and fig-nothing

the liquid of stardrum falls down upon earth, to meet with the men and fields huffing

nothing is even in this harpsichord space, nothing is rusting with caution

spires are spinning and pinnacles climb as the cross it spans out over ocean

what will men garden as the concrete it swallows, what of their hearts made of steel-crust

who will enshrine those flags which they honored, those nations whose armies they trust?

what will compose the beast they mosaic, how will its voice sound on waters

how many sheep will they slay for its building, how many jars will they crush of the Potter’s

they pull heavens down, they raise up their gravestones, they belch out the fires from their loin

and all the meantime, they pretend they are honest, are sensitive are Eden-enjoined

but nothing is fooled, not even their hearts, they know of the cord they tear down

that umbilicaled food which they must have to live, they lust to see heaven wear frown

and what chaffed their bellies, for what did they ravage, why would they scrape their own heartbone?

Why put a wishstick in the lips of their jaw, and there squell what the soul spark doeth moan?

Who hath bewitched the good which once white, did flourish and light up their seashores?

Indeed what darkness doeth shine now in light, where a villainous brood broke man’s oars

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