The wind tastes of stale season,
Filaments of it dry from disuse,
Twist and turn, twist and turn,
Into morsels for those,
Who have nothing less,
And wish nothing more.
Wait inside,
Let the walls fall down,
For wide in the open,
There is no one around,
Only a yawning road leading away,
Into a darkness done in artistic way,
From whence spills laughter; lost voices sorrow,
Wishful pretenders of a belated tommorow.
Wayside rises Colonnades; meaningless, grotesque,
Attempts at perfection,
Pillars of pain,
Heaved by hands, long buried under. Wonder-less, vacant eyes,
Still life, still life,
Breathing in the earth,
The moisture, the metal
The irony, the mirth.
Their raised fists, now barnacled;
In iron forged upon
A green glade, now barren,
Weaned and watered, once;
By the hands long buried,
Under wayside colonnades.
So the ghosts have gathered,
For a better afterlife,
Pale mouths, witnesses, sing
And march in naked apparel,
For a debt long unpaid,
By those visionary,
By the blind men,
Who dreamt of the colonnades.
THE HUMAN ANVIL 