Poetry

A house made from that found below its foundation.

Built up from the ground with profound imagination,

But, alas, all that rises must plummet back down

As the tides bring demise and the earth flattens out.

 To prolong such a tragic and rapid collapse

Of each castle deemed “magic”—nostalgic perhaps,

I’d suggest building fortresses far up the beach

As a moat will not shield from the wield of the sea.

But despite its location each structure will fall

As the wind, with a grin, tears apart the Great Wall.

As a curious kid makes a curious kick

With a foot like a wrecking ball crushing through brick.

But out of the rubble some frame may remain

Of a vestige of glory with two trunkless legs.

With a shame in his heart the great sculptor created

A monument mocking the man that it praises.

False was that pride of old King Ozymandias;

An empire’s only as strong as its sand is. 

All kingdoms rise from an unsteady ground.

They will fall all the same: piece by piece, pound for pound.

Then where lies the motive to ever construct

On a plane made of grains so innately corrupt?

The surge will not stop in its cruel reoccurrence.

Each castle we craft will collapse to the currents.

As man wages war against waves on the shore

With a pretense to win he, within, prepares for

That swift, shameless fall. What else could be planned?

A structure of sand is not structured to stand.