To All Your Sins

Built Aloft,
Three-hundred feet,
Slender and awkward,
Standing tall,
If only to stand out.

How peculiar,
From whence and whether,
Came such a thing,
Ungangly and big,
If not a creative fling?

No reason, can I
See of this,
Steel and Stone,
A jut,
In the way of some

How it wears,
Bores and dissapears,
All its time,
What compelled us,
To build it of lime

See how they curse,
Mean and mutter,
Its once imposing form,
A pit for time and money,
Eaten away by storm.

No questions raised,
Of its dismissal,
Too long around,
Too invested,
To make destruction sound.

Two decades on,
Still it stands,
A blip on the landscape,
A grain on the plank,
The pip of a grape.

Does it think,
Of worth and life,
So long has it watched on,
The lives whose long lament,
Against it are long.

Does it desire,
More than derision,
And in long its hope,
Thoughts of love,
"Far beyond its scope"

Does it consider,
What the world would think,
If it had never came,
And never rose,
Nor had a name.

Would we be happier,
Just to know,
How much it would,
Have made life worse,
Far more than it should.

We'll keep it all the same,
Wouldn't do to make it known,
How we feel of it,
No matter how long and loud we cursed,
And called a piece of this.

And so it stands,
This Monument