I am not mortar, I am mortal,
A force of destruction
about as cordial as a wreckingball.
A kiss like breaking brick,
that sickening feeling in your stomach.
Came seeking shelter and found
a splintered white picket.
A product of my raising,
build it and they will come praying
for restoration,
but I am no cathedral.
just broken and stained glass,
They say, have faith, and refuse to panic.
I don’t want to be faithless! I don’t want to be.
You dug this foundation by hand,
But it will be your grave – if you let it.
You can still leave this place,
Let this hole just fill up with rain
until there’s nothing left of it all .
No, I am not the home you hoped for –
I am the wreckingball.
You said the ground was solid here,
I felt sand beneath me slipping,
And even as you lost your footing
You still promised spires
And strong stone arches, columns of marble,
But I swear it’s most beautiful
when it’s on fire.
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How lovely the façade,
Such beautiful artistry.
And isn’t a passionate lie
Kind of like honesty?
And I want to believe.
So tell me again:
It’s not settling. It’s not settling
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© Heather Lloyd.