Skyscrapers know nothing of the human soul.
Cathedral spires soar and breathless domes evoke
A celestial reality seen only through reflections of
Gilded frescoes; meanwhile, corporate towers groan
Skywards like a multicellular organism whose
Organelles know nothing of a heart.
Like Babel aspiring to nothing.
Even stone can make me weep, I know, if
It is made with the faith that my soul could
Contend. These glassy towers, on the other
Hand, scrape away the human tendency
Towards devotion until there’s
Nothing to do but surrender, again,
To nothing new, eternally
Every old Monday at dawn.


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