"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings"*

Here stands a city,
stretching as far as
the east is from the west.
Dark and deep is the night
on the streets lined
with desolate lamp posts
which once ago held
light
to those who walked
to a place they called
home.

The moon beams
pierce apathetic clouds
and cast a milky
gleam
onto a decaying brick wall
overspread with faded Krylon.

Situated next to a broken
window
upon the crumbling clay and mortar
is scrawled a message:

"Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

A shattered visage lies
cold and numb.
A man once dominant and
inspiring
now is decomposing
in the ratways of his once
gleaming
empire.

The spray paint can rolls
from upon his fingertips
and his faint whisper
is as fleeting as a
morning breeze.

"That's not what
I meant at all.  That's
not what I meant
at all. that's not
what i meant at all
thats not
what i meant at
all what i meant
not at all..."