Urchin Thrones

A bottomless urn feeds itself From a summation of goodness and the splendor of light Refracting through the gate Is spinning the same threads of loss and sorrow Until the molding breaks And the threads are fraying on the matrons loom Belie and withhold from unbecoming Unseated from the parapet Plummeting from the perch Now less than an urchin gasping for air There's no peace in your halls Only dereliction Rings are falling from your mail Dreams are crumbling before your eyes Only derеliction and high fells sit in wait