Partial battle, fallen glory,
The licked implications of this limbless edifice.
Taught yet headless,
The sense in dropping what capital gain
From relics encumbered by a glory fallen.
No arm to protract the blade,
Found wanting, protected snarling, or
Wispy headrush that retracts the swipe.
This foul vision of crestfallen might,
This hole within a whole that certain, might.
Once gods, look they were ethereal,
Now snapshots in the strange, flashy box
And reduced to passing awe,
The stoic impression like residue from
A history learn't but not gained.
Fleeting- here's 'another one', jubulant in
Memory, but if their heads remained
A snarl would surely on their faces be ingrained,
And like the dowdy imprint, fleshly made,
The torture of immortality duly fades.
O.J.Wilks
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