‘What a peculiar fascination,’ one would say.
Yet, looking at it with morning eyes,
I would have it no other way!
Each and everyone, designed to suffer.
And, once gone,
only pillared stories remain.
Tales of wanting to rule our world.
In proper, pauper, place, every name, one in the same.
The convicts that have come to maintain.
They too, have no name.
As I stroll the rails, to an obliged gate.
There is a sense to where laughter, remorse and bad tidings…
could have begun.
Almost an inkling is given, to stare, directly into the sun.
Thus a retort, my constant fascination, lies in the work…
Still needing to be done.