Pity The Fool

He worked from dawn till dusk

his back beset with pain as tusks.

Plot and plan, no strength is left

lay his bones in sleep bereft

His construct, a fine and haughty manor

in crowning, raise a grave, prophetic banner.

In woven gold upon this emblem,

most proudly is embolden

magnificent words of faulty wisdom.

"By pure belief this castle stands,

for naught might others seek bed rock to build.

This house shall stand on dreams,

She will surely...surely hold."

Now speak, mute Flag!

In faded glory

as you fly this day,

o’er strewn and tumbled rubble

still announce this

deadly and deviant doctrine

edged in tattered gold.