Our anchor,
it swings,
becoming a pendulum,
erasing structure
upon symmetrical
impact.
Both ways,
it handles destruction,
it shares sensations.
Does it ever
overpower us,
over something
we forgot
to devour?
We might
have been blind.
How would we see it?
Our rush
had always been
singular.
Our fates
were always caught
on cold endeavors.
Stains for our souls,
outside of reach
of deliverance.
Split seconds
thriving on Hell,
turning to Heaven
for a savior
came too late.
Our towers,
they’re coming down.
We’re coating our throats
with layers of dust,
from our persistence.
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