These halls seem somewhat hollow,
Whose walls once knelled with
Wit, charm and sorrow.
The silence erodes the keystones' arch
Subdued subjects that once did sing
Depart.

That ancient bell tied to towers steeple,
No longer speaks for the wants
And needs of it's people.
For no man, woman or child
Could be found and riled
To hold fast and grasp the rope.
Hold firm and ring the bells of hope.

The sound of truth cuts fine.
Old lies no longer aloof.
When smoke does rise
From thatched houses roof,
We may live to see the proof attached,
Foundations subsiding.
Revolutions confiding
Inside the very stone itself.
Mortar fights Mortar
Till neither has health.
Candelabra arbitrates,
Fiery death from water.
The dual will slaughter us all.

It shall last till the hall can not past the moment of the present.
All its tenants cast out to the depths of mortal unrepentant.
A more pleasant alternative to uncertain death
May stray your way in an unwanted effigy
Cunningly disguised as yourself
As you drink to good health
Comfortably delved into the
Abode of bliss.
A delusional  apotheosis.