My poems are not a safe place to be.
But despite the danger, you seem to linger here.
The rafters hang with stripped electrical cables
but this building has never been up to code.

I hope you have your helmet, dear -
for everything is falling down.
Look how the light shines through broken window -
you could almost mistake it for beauty.

You offer me a bucket of wet paint,
but there are no longer walls to wash.
They've all crumbled now.
The frames are all that's left.

They look like skeleton, you see.
Like prison bars or Greek columns.
Am I dungeon or am I Panthéon?
Tell the truth this time, my love.

No matter, I suppose.
We will fade to nothing soon -
You, my poems, and I.