The carnage of Babel increased in my absence,
Failing the language of heavens
These disembodied lights point no meaning,
Curiosities of math,
Nothing more.
My story never made the stars,Nothing more.
No Cassiopeia to assert my beauty rivaled gods--
Absence of apotheosis.
When did I become a maker of night,
And what are these clouds that once were words,
And what are these clouds that once were words,
Before the Tower fell?
The dust rises from rubble I shouldn’t breathe,
But the clouds contain me
In rapid inhalations
Before air clears to nothing—
The vanishing dust holds stories
That crumbled when human efforts to articulate,
Stone by stone,
Achieved a height approaching Heaven.
Who are we, not to shatter the glass, darkly?
Not to pile stones?
When towers fall,
The wonder is they ever stood at all.
May,
2012
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