build the greatest architectural achievement
and stand below it with bellies filled
and voices echoing from our throats to the
ends of what we have built,
but we opened our eyes and the the trellises
and particulars, the manicured square inches
of our creation have been erased as though
they were never there at all.
We searched in the dead of night, we searched
in countries unknown, feeling the call of
some other voice
urging us on to the next space, pulling
at our shirtsleeves, to the next
world, the next time we might catch a
glimpse
of the tower we once knew; we had created it
ourselves.
And though we are searching and
waiting and making it all out
to be alright, we cannot pretend;
the searching and the waiting and the
desperate instinct to rebuild slowly
decline, drift away, spread out
and dissipate.
How we thought that would never be the case,
we would always be searching for the same place,
the same masterpiece, the same creations-
how we were holding onto the walls in our own
dizzying sickness, our own dreams of what
it meant to be alive
-as the drifting from these dreams slowly brought
bile to our stomachs and our mouths.
It doesn't taste like, feel like, look like, smell like,
even seem like we thought it would.
The building rises in our collective conscience;
we know it will never be defeated.
Perhaps it is true that will will never
find the creation. Perhaps we have
lost the ability.
We must face the unsettling truth:
We are lost in our own skin.
http://rubertu.deviantart.com/art/architecture-in-Sibiu-66185747
