Dying like fleeting words,
Plummeting to the ground
The grey concrete beneath
No longer bound to the skies.
Their previous masters, our fathers
The Saints, having too fallen into their self-dug/proclaimed graves,
Martyrs, who thought they were so profound
Into the niches in the walls.
Pink, malign residue peels off of plaster
Paper skin shredded like wax- at the spur of
The Devils heated iron rod.