Ten years (#294)

Melancholy and envy envelop
the fleeting remnants of a distant past.
Earth’s ever-pacing ways won’t budge, won’t stop
yet weeps the wreckage for it to be last.

I don a veil of sorrow, far too tight,
and gaze in awe upon the edifice
for it stands tall and ushers in the night;
there beckons me a timid, gentle hiss.

“What you think to see as man’s first eyeball
had never been a novel unicum.
All strata you have plucked in righteous gall
were born to pose as if in sum to sum.”

Plunged into stances I alone despise,
I’m stuck asking the ques­tion when to rise.