Despite your lack of flowing diction,
You seem to know of this affliction,
Rivaling the Roman fiction,
Tassets turn to your position

"I speak a name but give a story,
One to years I've spent away,
And one for years of future glory,
The walls of dust you once beheld,
Can now give way to pastures knelled,
By death and life and grief, a meld,
Of several pieces stitched and sown,
To teach to you, memento mori"

Once-stable souls now rest on thistles,
Leaders launch their pretty missiles,
Towards dens of daggers, stones and whistles,
The name we sought now has a face,
"A waxy, shiny, formless gristle"

This place cannot commune with plague,
If held to motives ever vague,
Your scriptures lined with pictures ample,
Bereft of science, truths or samples,
Though as the saying softly goes,
Glory be to leaders trampled...