Corkboard
Human virtue pools sunset-like
between ivory spires,
slithering languidly down too-fragile spine;
Receiving slab, 3 a.m.
Dry-ice-blessed fingers
capture final (human) failings
of divine architecture.
Snow strives in vain to hide the nakedness
of fractured iron;
support beams shattered
by some capricious hand,
the roof gapes bloodstains.
Winter holds nothing to fear
but revelation of form and
purification of structure.
I marvel as I lay
passive and imprecise waste:
No fantasies remain for me to want
(even as I slake haughty sensitivities,
tracing the wasteland's rust-stained core with
one last layer of molten bone)
- they merely drive back the glaciers
to seed swampy malaise,
and summer was a treacherous fool.
Bone-and-viscera butterflies are so much more attractive
pinned out for desecration.
Destiny Knight Community Member 
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