tour the lumbering
hulks of what used
to be and what
might have been.
notice the chill emanating
into the drizzling ether
of your spine from the
mammoth skeletal towers.
and you, supine and
recumbent in the thin
air of night in that
cheap and tiny coffin
made of wood and razor
wire and flesh and bones.
in each passing minute
it all shakes and shudders
and the concrete and mortar
loosens and it rains
bricks and stones.
impenetrable tombs
clutter the now open
and vast horizon.