The balustrades are crumbling at Versailles,
The darkened posts of sintered dust and tears;
I’ve climbed them, nail by nail, and wine to wine, -
And now I’ve time to question my deference.
Forsaken, here we shape the end of times
in both our hands to fingerprint -
What are we, little one? -
Time left is left bereft by right, -
If there are ghouls that lurk
Behind the first spring leaves
And insipid of petal,
Than that is us,
Without a doubt, or outcome,
Two crossed pieces of stained metal.