Retroismic palaces rise from deserted sands but all I see around me is mental illness
A basket of bread and flower,
-Lexicon for heartening;
Jazz brass and sunburn in the poppy fields
It once dealt well with oblivion,
It once tired blemishes.
"What is a palace made for?" I grumble and cry
Atop the hill, a crescent in the sky.
So that always, when you look up
A majestic marble fills your eyes.
How many slave tears make for the drink of the corrupt?
Before they cut it down, and dig up the infant stump
A dizzying game of musical chairs,
Succumb to the heavy fist of ruthless von Trump
A palindrome sickness of calamity prayers
Mumble in their tall office space chairs (to themselves, only)
Long tail coats with blood on their sleeves
"Things will be fine, if you just pray to the upstairs."
But that retroismic palace is not enough, no not enough to have me deceived!
Because I come from a lineage of blooming apple trees
Where natural beauty seamlessly interweaves
There is no time for makebelief!