The crumbling artifice
Whose bellows wheeze and groan
Black lifeblood spilling in spurts
Shuddering its final days
The morning sun kisses their face
Grab the rifles
A cool breeze blows from the north
Spare no quarter
Gardening with the pail of mayhem
Watering the tree
Fertilizing the grass
For the rebirth of glory
Anemic children
Petulant and impudent
To crush any tyranny
Under their soft pink fists
Everyone is righteous
In headspace
Atrocities justified
In a quick stretch and a leap
Grab the hammers and wrenches
Tools of creation are tools of destruction
Pusillanimous guardians of the construct
Crumbled by the flailing of the other
And their own lack of resolve
Paradox 