Far above those lofty clouds
In a tower in the sky,
Distanced from the noisy crowds,
And protected from the Lie.
The spire shines and blazes,
A beacon for all who hope.
At the bottom are crimson mazes,
And the stillness of a rope.
The glass halts any force,
But is becoming close to brittle.
Each hit it takes, it cracks, of course.
And shards fall little by little.
This opening that now exists
Drops me now to the abyss.
Copyright © Danny Stinson