****** bricks leave a stain that
A name does not face.

At the ledge
Standing on the edge
To where he will slip.
A sand stone iceberg, admittedly superb, leans, gawks and disturbs.

It is absurd,
To preserve,
----------------
Imperial fever.

It only leaves us weaker
In a time growing bleaker
We are our own Grim Reaper;

Oil black cloak woven in smoke, tokes on poison and the fickle scythe sharpened with spite and the alt right. Choking out the light.

With each stroke.
But shoulder to shoulder, folk to folk, we are also our chance
at defiance.

A wedge of skin and paper prys open the street.

Drips have become puddles, puddles streams, all feeding the glacier of bodies, humble in size but not in spirit, tight ****** at the pulpit, of such an obnoxious ***.

It is Czar, Tsar, Sir, Emperor

It is them, in the stony carcass, concrete bones.
The attitude, the glare. Somehow warmer in rock than in person.

To humanise beasts is to victimise.
To sympathise with monsters is to despise their targets.
He, it, that, is enemy.
But it is not seen. Though day by day and night by night, it was my plight to stroll on by, not keeping an eye on that man half in the sky, not spitting at his step or flicking a cigarette, at where his legacy does rest.

All Rhodes lead to Rome.
All roads fall when the empire is lost, for they go nowhere.  

What is beneath will be aloft
And what is on top, will be brought down to sleep, for no we are not sheep.

Our pack is strong now and angry.

Though cardboard toothed and picket armed we wolves will shout and tear your name down.
If only you could jump, if only you slip now.

You could have made a very happy crowd.