Windy torrents of water and thunders echo
against a silent brown house,
It's large grey doors open, shrill voices sing,
chandeliers burn...
more sounds are heard outside, like a hailing.
chandeliers burning the ceiling...
statue wax ivory figures melt, burning in their
passion, melting turned violet red they have become
hopeful, promises of painless joys, power over
wars, famine, disease and all things of darkness
are whispered in hushed sincerity and prayers
but still vague and opaque.
Even now a banging of hail, leaves upon a pane
all the doors blow open now
and with a shriek all of wind in the drops are
scattered drenching, so even the mid morning rain
can still drip earth upon the clear white figures
revealing their true origin
rendered **** by what once made them.
