We have been here before.
I know it.
Though it's not necessarily a memory,
or any retention of real information.
It could simply be that I am aware of
other, similar perceptions;
that I have been affected in this way
at some time.
So it is
with some small understanding
that I may describe what I see herein.
there is the tower we sought to climb.
You can see where it pierces the clouds,
trails lightning through the gap it opens
in incessant flows of vapor.
You can see
where the minds of bygone times
thought to make it beautiful;
where long-dead angels stand guard
or immortal, faceless beasts
mirror the fears we hold most dear.
You can see the windows, stained glass,
each shard perfect and shining,
caught with a shade of scarlet,
faintly reminiscent of blood.
You can see the place where other climbers
lost their grip,
for the stones have crumbled away.
The tower cries like a being chilled,
though warm wind passes through
these holes in the wall.
You can see the green of vines,
creeping up from the dirt itself,
slowly breaking apart the foundation
wearing away the sacred stone:
and when it falls, all memory shall with it.
Esse est percipi.
And you can see the ground, rising to meet you--