Epitaph For The Architect
His silver tracings were sloppy arcs made only
To shimmer in the moon's stolen light.
His intricate figures were the histories
Of ice skaters.
And these looping patterns surround the architect
In his crushed shell.
The walls are turned inward,
traitorous shards!
An organic and efficient tomb for this low thing,
Through its work and
In the image of its death,
A greater source of beauty
Than my life will ever equal.