For those who die with
voices of the unborn,
Hearts tremble at
alters of memory you build.
Wails that char their
chests –
Linger with embers of
your faded hymns.
What sarcasm cases
their shadows –
Who else’s soul can be
trapped in word?
Your blank gazes at
their past often sobers despots in tatters,
They house the
bereaved who find solace in your cursing truths.
You recoil snakes
under pillows of our affluence, and we beg –
The miserly stroke to
touch and sunder our war-torn fortresses.
Falsity is a tower
most build around your being, but only weary minds dwell in the maze that is
you.
Your brevity soils
loin-cloths of even their puritan guises. US.
Those to whom your
fire ransacks - US, cathedrals of your architecture.
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