O every inch was gilt
all o’er the grandeur-o-matic
long ere this gelded age
sang soprano like a robbed man
in a cage or attic.
O pulvis et umbra sumus.
The burthens of the past
vault overhead safekeepingly.
Keepsakes that we from us
have forged like a shadowy bookmark
dark our place in ages.
O pulvis et umbra sumus.
But Alexander’s dust
isn’t static. Pah. It stacks brick
like Attic bric-a-brac
then razes monuments to us
like Ozymandias.
O pulvis et umbra sumus.
So fall upon your knees.
Then rise. Keep trinkets if you must.
But think: they’re all for you
—so central in your wild surmise—
so becoming to us.
O pulvis et umbra sumus.
Scrivner's Pyre 