Our penchant
For mortal weakness
Is the way
All futures end

Knowing things
Left defeated
Are preserved
As living gods

Like tales we mold
As victims
And narratives
Shaped together

Out of remnants
Lost to heresay
Or religions
Carved from stone

Tragic
But never real
When discovered
In ashen ruins

Among heroes
Supposedly worshipped
Made of marble
Or broken clay

As pasts
Are dangrous visions
Of potentials
Often wasted

Enabling
Prior chapters
To glorify
Certain themes

Repeating
What determines
These trails
Of fallen pillars

Achieving
Almost nothing
But a memory
Left to brag –

Wrong
Though easily missed
By men
Who have no wishes

But to leave
Their written legacies
Behind
As fading masks

And marks
Worth being etched
If only where
Few can see them

Like wreckage
Caught from history
Stuck within
Present tense

Where walls
Which bear their semblance
Are bound
To nearly crumble

And conceal
Such painted burdens
Under bricks
Of heaviest grief

Sad as it is
To say
That their triumph
Is our undoing

Building worlds
From pieces
When the rest
Are dead and gone.

– J. Pigno