From the top of the 

light pole the crow loudly cries 

"look at me, at me" 

Prognostications 

on the world's progress have been

grossly inflated 

The rended veil has 

been resown but the temple 

remains mere rubble 

The water line no 

longer where it used to be 

tells its own sad tale 

A mind is a fire 

to be stoked, said Plutarch, but

here it is cold ash 

Twirl until the world 

no longer has a hold on

you or your spirit 

The road, primrose lined

or less taken, still ends at

the same damn crossroads