It’s time again to cull the herd.
A lullaby swept over this meadow,
leaving quartz dust behind.
The kind of lust we are capable of forgiving,
provided the axioms we adhere to
pull over to the shoulder.
In our satisfaction,
we were left to smolder.
Now that we’re older, we ought
to really give credit to whom it is due.
On to the next clue. Was it you
who molded these columns
from the piles of solemn clay
left over from when the river deserted us?
The whole damn town almost up
and fled as well, but in this circle of Hell,
you stick it out
until the bills are paid.