January 10th, 2014

Somebody’s changed the old bricks, added new mortar. The blackened iron fence closes her off.  She stands there knowing not what she has become. Death deceived, funeral faked. The specter of Aristotle, dumbfounded amid her walls, rests in chaos.
But if you take enough time, just enough to become humble alright, you might get to sense, that in her old heart of stone, she knows what she is.
The silent wails of her mutilated mouth terrifies you into making a promise of never forgetting that. The promise that you are sure to break one of those days, when the world goes violet mad, and oracles at Delphi, filled with laughter and disbelief, get drunk from the barrel of shame.
There was never a head to crack the wall plenty open. Just a semblance of strength and a headless body in the end.

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