Estate Wind

Posted: May 26, 2019 in Chat
Tags:

Minister of my manor, my estate;
the highrise and the tenement were meant for me
by birthright. I was priest and bishop,
sold solace by the ounce; wrote my likeness
in swirls up stairwells, portraits on walls,
in lifts. Tagged cars and the basement blocks,
the ground itself, train and truck. None could
know to go without my say-so. All dollies with babies,
men in day jobs, night work,
mine.

But it came to pass graffiti began to seem
just gross; how it all meant nothing to no one.
And the end came quicker day by day,
sending messages hourly, saying, Silence.
Stop.
Blank.

I’d turned my manor to a wasteland;
worst as best. People tried to climb out;
I pulled them back, so’s not to be alone
with the wreckage I’d made. I could not
break out of my own cage, watched as the bones
of my hands could keep nothing held, the holes
in my skull hear, see, know, nothing. All this was
my worse. The emptiness I had made, mine
for always.

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