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 

Sadness seeps in like

dank water in a basement

as flood waters rise 

Threadbare thinking caps

moulder in a corner no

longer in use here