Moving pieces of the chess board to stale rubble,
Blackened night of warming reflected in the sky
That teaches philosophers we are all will ever know.
All that stands is the Rock, knee of cypress
In a murky swamp, diluted settlement of knowledge
Dispersed among the foggy remnants displayed,
Their majesty the green-tiled ornament
Stripped of decoration to entomb the masses,
Survivors who once believed in inevitable progress.
They congregate before the Ascension,
Whence prophets tickled the telescope,
Casting beauteous constellations on the thin walls
Lovelorn frost of destiny to those who remembered,
Those who looked as far as the eye could see
And only saw themselves, a star speckled explosion
Pasted on the borders of Creation.
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