The columns
primarily
fed the atmosphere
and you can't even see
the ceilings:
so much effort,
human suffering,
to create the illusion
of being outside,
priest.
Having shelled out
for the guided tour
we never expected
to be followed in this way,
watched from the shadows,
but at least we're not alone,
the rewards of your primacy
and being the Other
in this place and time
and all
letters and some kind of reflection,
but not a mirror I don't use mirrors,
there is no glass
and you don't reflect
there is no glass to go through
and why would we,
the time and artisanship and piety invested
in these doorways
because life is movement
but not too fast
we've got centuries to last, still
and I've already crumbled enough
through the ages
darkly and that's just today,
and the stars and significance,
destined to ponder your destiny,
apparently,
if we can't get you back to work somehow,
smoke and no mirrors,
of course,
it's a classless society which is perfect for me
and you'll spoil the mood
again,
I don't blame you, I just hope you understand
the pains they've taken
to hold an atmosphere here
and, you, brooding,
lamenting spoiled endings
but that doesn't mean we can't surprise
Shaddai Shaddai
a subtle shift from a home to a den,
it's all atmosphere,
and not fear, but uncertainty,
the realization that there is a quiet conflict
between all things and we are sitting here in the cellar
of the center, waiting for one to overtake the other, or to
realize
and drop.
On these streets
we'll build something
but
my heart's not in it.