Urchin Thrones

A bottomless urn feeds itself
From a summation of goodness and the splendor of light
Refracting through the gate

Is spinning the same threads of loss and sorrow
Until the molding breaks
And the threads are fraying on the matrons loom
Belie and withhold from unbecoming

Unseated from the parapet
Plummeting from the perch
Now less than an urchin gasping for air

There's no peace in your halls
Only dereliction
Rings are falling from your mail
Dreams are crumbling before your eyes

Only derеliction and high fells sit in wait