Ruin

Small things

Sing

Small things

Dance

Little lights

Wrapped around

Big trees

 

We are climbers

Across outlasted ruins

But the

Ruins

Not their builders

Not their

Ruiners

Well the

Ruins

They’re still

There

 

What does that say?

We put it up

To ruins?

Is that all we can hope for?

To be ruins

To build the

Eventuality

Of a ruin.

Yes,

That ought to be

Our lot.

 

Things tend that way

Don’t

They?

Our bodies will be ruins.

But they die.

Why build a ruinous dying

Thing?

To build a ruin,

That is why.

To live to build ruins.

 

But even stone

Is scoured

From the Earth

Even ink washes away

And storms,

They pass

On the plain.

What stays?

Oh, yes.

Ruins do.

 

Ruins will tell their tragedy forever.

People love them too much.

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