They rise as if in glory but there's no praises to a god in this,
this is the kiss off big goodbye to the peasants as they touch the sky and a pauper stands in awe at what he saw,
a million metric tonnes of concrete, chewing on his gums he thinks,
I'd like to meet the architect.

Some paupers are much more than all the rags they ever owned or wore and carrier bags they swore allegiance to, an oath on his lips as the ghost of him slips into awareness.

The blocks that block his way also block the light of day and nothing lives for very long, the weak die off, the strong lie low and the harsh winds of a harsher winter blow.

Up far above him to where a kind of gods love is owned by the few and the higher it goes although the winter wind blows they sway to a dance sound that only they hear and like scorpions in season it's the stings that I fear.


But when these blocks that are buildings are locked up they're filled in with more fear than I can imagine or could comprehend  if the means are a justification of the heights that men will go
who makes the loading that loads the loaded dice?
it would be nice to know.