Chapter Text
The Tower
The triumphant spire, cloaked in mist’s gentle rapture,
keeping silent, boisterous vigil over the restless
masses of the weary, looks upon the shining beacons
and the rusted histories and says, “Surely none are as prosperous as I.
Truly the scissor tail sings each evening in my
shadow, and the sun hails me with kisses and adulation.”
As each morning the mindless husks of a lost
civilization rise to greet the tower in all its glory, and
revel in its blessings, so too does the fog, the most
hopeful of mankind’s depressions, encircle this radiant
light in its arms, and whisk it to a place where dreams
and progress leave no space for pride.