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