This tower is crumbling, that much is clear--
--indeed, perhaps it always has been,
Ever since it decided to build upward rather than outward,
Reaching its narrowness into the sky
To seek a false god constructed of its own ego.
The real gods were left to the domain of those below,
Those whom the tower sneered down upon from above,
Surviving on the edge of the distinction between cunning and wit.
Exotic subjects fit only to have their data harvested,
Put to good use by those enlightened enough to synthesize--
--but they could have told you these conclusions all along, had you only asked.
Truths written in earth
Have no need of the trappings of men.
The tower crumbles,
And we must dodge the falling stones.
The journey to its base, to chip
Furtively away at its foundations by night
Is a perilous one, weaving hither and thither
Away from the crushing of its demise--
--or its embrace.
Someday, we will dance among this wreckage
And make it our own,
Building once again outward in humility
And not upward in hubris,
Following the truths of the earth
Rather than dictating them,
In halls wrought not of ivory
But of clay.
Yet for now, we only hide and hope
As the Tower crumbles.