condemned

blowing high winds
turpentine and paint
the smells of progress
regression, one infinity
at a time
makers of cities and maps
and portfolios, full of maps
we chart our dreams
our plans, our delusions
we never gave up
on peace
we just took care to hide it
in the molding and drywall
silently smoldering
…don't ever fear
on account of all
you have seen here…
in some future
in an eon, a vague
long-awaited tomorrow
this chamber of horrors
this house of our communal
slow torture –
it’s coming down