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Poem

Say,
My beloved of Ruins of Old
Who do I have to blame for the End of The World

There is but one metropolis remaining
Consumed by Drought and Siege
At the End of the World

Plaster dust raining on upon nobody at all
In a frenzied glow
At the End of the World 

Where is the battle of satans and saints
When paper boys traverse streets 
On tinkly tippy toed feet

As the sea roared away its last
And the white columns the founding fathers 
Torn down by hungry burglars in the siege

My beloved died in my city, purgatory 
My city died in my arms
The Great Bell tolled Hope in the vanishing palace 

The best of is but a candle in the wind

Surely, you would know why?

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