What Wanting Wasted Woe

Creeping listlessly over the edge of the eaves on the palace of communication are the vile, and tangled vines of commonality. A convenient lapse in the will of perceptibility.
What?

Beyond harsh, abandoned and weathered facades, a home to phantasmal vagrants. Peeking through haggard, yellowed blinds, their eyes lit by moonlight.
Wanting.

The grand achievement, the ziggurat crumbled. Ruins of language. Forgotten struggles of ancient builders.
Wasted.

Hurled from the blackened edifice, children left behind, Plummet past structure.
Woe!

Reviews

[Quinn]

Incredible structure which really makes you think. Wonderful poem, well written.

[JohanneBlack]

Thank you, Zoe.