There is a fine dust fallen into cracks of separation, dulling past shine
Time\'s easing of hold on nails and tacks, a bed, a shrine in decline
A bandage of cobwebs and rust conceals scar\'s deep holes once driven
Where corroded fingers of iron hold rot in place, in hopes of neglect forgiven
Small piles of debris where bonds pull free, scatter in the wounding winds of time
Termites of cold trust, in burrows under crust, hide their decaying tunnels of crime
Now the host, but a ghost, nothing but dry skin over vapid air
The mask of a facade, a wooden God, crumbles in despair