This crowd: a fleshy lake. The throngs as smallish waves, folds like skin upon the sow.
A faint din as spit and speech caw- the rank broth that stews while boiled alive.
“Who are you to cast your net so wide, and deepen the maw?
Cannibal, your hooks blood deep in hide.
This too shall pass. You'll find yourself at last.”
Couldn't anyone else have tried to carve their hold?
The mark of hands. Couldn't anyone else have climbed the bones of old?
The bridge of man, its steps cobbled stones from sand.
One way mirror, cracked and leering, watch us crawl.
A coarse ascension, a vulgar dream dragged kicking back to the floods.
A crass intrusion: the eyesore tower was crashed by swarms...
A herd of cackles, a school of flesh that scorns the touch.
“The only face that scorns this fate is ours: self same, ripe to faint.
Once down, the stench, the taint. So raise the eyesore tower.
We'll raze the rows we felled.
When stayed the hand of storms, down poured the fruit of arms.”