because some things do look more romantic as a ruin
like silent reveries interrupted
by the train-wreck disasters
of life and lifeless living
in the end
only the withering frosts
of early spring remain to be seen
where all is endless, forgotten and green
that social arbiter, the judge inside
deciding matters of greatest portent
nothing seems substantial; the lack
of everything erupts like festering blisters
under the milk-white skin of piety and penitence.
and for what?
a chance at a shallow fortune, made
like slave bricks without straw
into some kind of desert paradise?