Forged from the pyre of the kiln and urn
Space to retire for the kings adjourned
The irons in the fire of the keys unturned
Sovereign leases mired in the builders’ blood

The living entombed in catacombs of rooms
Diggers exhume tomes from mere air plumes
History of the doomed booms “soon, yours will be hewn”
The guest will sequester the land of the possessor

Trapped its visage, all sparse and vacant
Wrote my name, drew art, carved out clay dents
It’s now mine, walls have signs from me and my agent
Call the police, or at least a priest, to exorcise the vagrants

Forged in ink on papyrus and then copied
Earthmover armed at feet of regime lobby
The rebar unbundled, sits nearby sloppy
Bloodletting begins where the next mall will be


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