~ Ragged mist of stalled horizon, from dry dock to disadvantage point
second hand shops of sackcloth and ash, they contain multitudes
treading the outside edge of perception, rehearsing disaster in fistfuls of earth, and the immaterial: the stuff of pure shadow
a bevy of dead buildings resemble a fallen actress in the throes of dance, with emaciated figurines leaning forward in the temple, listening for clues too far to whisper
work will never resume on the tower, and it will remain painfully scanty, a place to bury strangers or raise up cholera
the third world summer sun on sacred walls, red before orange, let the rays burn away our sins, we contain multitudes
but one step inside doesn't mean we understand anything ~