Urban decolletage in myriad collage with shades of calico beams of brightness,
To say so many is a question as the efforts of our dreams,
An empty courtroom spills onto the quiet streets that will wash come morning,
Be it stave or be it brave,
With none there to tell comes the pushing brooms no tell to share,
And it seems a coming whisper to the vantage times of twelve,
Beneath the rising trajectory the protests of tired feet dragging plowshares,
Instead of assaying other options to the system of the trees,
As many break countenance just the same as once had been unchained,
The rule of one the rule of none,
So that it may be yet democracy the classical cadaver made in error,
That so many brave by one shadow of a wicked hand of broken bones,
Instead of walking thru the winter and the pleasing bright disgrace,
Set the many on themselves a single task witlessly,
True to the causal hatred that cannot make discourse by neither option,
As reprieve and as decieve,
A sickening gift that breaks both ways and curses many in hands
Twisted secret power peril open contents and source unknown.