Amid
Dust and desolation, it all sets in,
for a savage once, it is beauty akin,
to settled bones and tired skin,
and the fiddler puts his bow to rest,
perched atop the infinite crest,
amused and musing about his rest,
the buried branch that sprouts a flower,
whilst man and machine tend to cower,
stargazing at the boundless tower,
She plucks the seams of her feathery blanket,
her beautiful curves, her golden anklet,
and empty apathy, a flightless carpet,
rue and rancidity, it all sets in,
for a savage null, it is beauty akin,
to empty bottles with broken rims.
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