Many things aureate like an Aurelian
only to rise and fall like a phoenix butterfly
but do not coruscate like Kingfishers.
To me the Guilds are but the assayers
full of bullion lined with guilt behind gilted walls.
Their garden lilies are red as blood.
And their filigrees are filled with greed.

Many things disappear like a diaspora
only to be rerooted or killed like Jews
but do not reappear like Jesus Christ.
To Them the killed are but the beggars
dull with common ignorance built behind blind shawls.
Their hardened hearts are dead of love.
And they cease to be as they recede.

Many things elapse like the past
only to return like deja vu
but do not collapse like the three towers.
To us the gears are but for the better
bowl of fuhr, rewind, silt behind New World Orders.
Their royal pardons bled the dove.
And where peace is needed we are bleeded.

Many things entrench like Entrena
only to be destroyed like Gomorra
but do not flinch like it was yesterday.
To you the gifts are but the frost
bull of one opined with wilt behind a jilted flower.
Their barren deepens; misled thereof.
And the pieces police a world on lease.

Many things aureate like an Aurelian
only to rise and fall like a phoenix butterfly.
Many things disappear like a diaspora
only to be rerooted or killed like Jews.
Many things elapse like the past
only to return like deja vu.
Many things entrench like Entrena
only to be destroyed like Gomorra.
But do not coruscate like Kingfishers.
But do not reappear like Jesus Christ.
But do not collapse like the three towers.
But do not flinch like it was yesterday.

To me the Guilds are but the assayers
full of bullion lined with guilt behind gilted walls.
To Them the killed are but the beggars
dull with common ignorance built behind blind shawls.
To us the gears are but for the better
bowl of fuhr, rewind, silt behind a New World Order.
To you the gifts are but the frost
bull of one opined with wilt behind a jilted flower.

Their garden lilies are red as blood.
And their filigrees are filled with greed.
Their hardened hearts are dead of love.
And they cease to be as they recede.
Their royal pardons bled the dove.
And where peace is needed we are bleeded.
Their barren deepens; misled thereof.
And the pieces police a world on lease.
It seems that all that will be left is mud.
And everything keeps being repeated.