These are lovely things we leave
behind

collecting dust, and careful-tucked
aside the gilded consternation of
that average working class, so relative
in reason

the right and intent to life and Love
for life

for the well-informed 'n disillusioned
in the end, are far too free Who
in their places must have made conceivably
but never be-forecasted: a smothered liberty

They are alleged-to, the wakeful populace
who with no worldly heart can swear off blinking,
for they dare not sleep a wink, who surely have not
dreamt, as neither could they slumber through
another summer’s sweet demise the alibi

It is silhouetted
sterile human things—

What stands clustered on a
politan old hill
that infinitely sighs, yet
does not speak, hence tells
no lies