Halt, Past.

Preserved in the past,

the present will pass and become passed,

passing through portals,

a passage pursued by mortals,

trying to immortalize the atrocities committed as merely cordial.

Dialing in the correct order,

measuring the mortar,

aligning boundaries and building up borders.

No strong enough a soldier

can break through what has been soldered and smoldered

under the burning embers of coal.

The soul

tries to rise from the ashes of shame,

from the shadows cast in blame,

a game of then and now with no sight of the future,

aside from the sutures.

In spite of the putrid

oozing of endless boozing in a punch drunk love.

Above

it all, yet looking down,

a broken smile

known as a frown

is the gown plastered on the face of disgrace.

Placed firm in a foundation of cracked cementing statues,

lamenting in laminated hope brochures,

which lock in the last known attempt to procure

a treasured polished piece.

It’s niche,

and not quite as ripe as a peach.

Peel off the veneer,

all unleashed,

the superglued splinters fall at the feet.

It had always been incomplete

but entered into the show to compete.

Completely tarnished,

streaks of varnish

drip stains on the remains

of what the future could not halter,

the alter.

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