What dread pattern lies beneath the scale of time? Molecules twisted and entwined for strength….

….yet the whole laid low beneath a confusion of rust and dirt and mangled empire.

What chilled vagary of the Gods, turns polished craft, into pitted relic?

Before you fell, how many true hearts did you pierce, sitting lonely in your tower?

Were you oiled and polished for parade? Shown off for courage?

Did the hands that spawned you, crowd eager at the kill?

Or were they making more, just like you?

Staunching the rot with promises of some more ardent glory?

What chance we, when all of what you were, is so much of what we are?

Ah!, the might of Rome! — largely a borrowed thing.

Leave a Reply