Compulsion Stilled.

Glazed sky

pouring blue fire

into fork like moulds; morse code

written into the raindrops,

faces leering from the slick ground

with alien curiosity,

the soul mocking the self

with reflective knowing

and cold disinterest.

Remember the vines

that came to occupy the structure

in the absence of people,

slowly pulverising the bricks

to dust, strangling order

out of the uniformal,

nature favours disarray

'your structures are temporary,

chaos rules here'

whispers a voice;

some residual intuition.

Dilapidation is the hand

of a constant builder

whose work is despised

and feared,

a ceaseless enterprise

that reveals the skeleton

of trivial endeavour

with omnipotent certainty.