the tone is
dour,

a taste grown
sour

on tongue of
beast

in need of
shower,

curtains drawn-

grim features
sketched

on wall to
see..

what’s better
left,

from tower, man
emerges

clean and fresh,
with gentler
urges.

stone by stone,
shoved up
a hill..

to roll back
down,

was built
alone–

this crumbling
home..

on fringes of now
thriving
town-

were bricks
set up..

to fall back
down.