On happening upon all our desecrated sanctuaries,
the carefully manicured lawns and small reflecting pool
that have somehow grown smaller behind their wrought
iron fences for the detritus left and accumulated there,
our hero harkened back to their pithy construction.
The righteous indignation that he felt himself grow from
as a little boy into teenhood, was so justified.
The emancipation and commensurate construction
of copses, knaves, reliquaries, sepulchers, and gilt in
-ward looking glass tabernacles for the solemn reverence
and the eventual remembrance would seek out and place.
And he paces the long, long labyrinth in his head, and
he thinks of this nothing instead of his forebears.
It is a hot, hot day, here in January, and Hero beared
the weight of any and all generations; though not
having been asked to. And seeing the scrubby fey church
yard, away from him, and separated from his time by
protectionary forces built to keep him in and keep him out,
and they died, and through no fault of their own but through
ignorance, fear, and a possible premeditated government plan
he grew up again ignorant; and contributed to he, self,
as the Celebrant of spreading rubbish.
