Old ruins cover an old wall in a cave
Something that mentions the human gut
Which verociously claims what it may crave
Be that deep spirituality or thick smut
Those sorts of days are carefully counted
In cylindrical ruins of yesterdays thought
In a way that may appear mounted
Upon what merry times have brought
They curiously hint at intelligent things
Down in tunnels carved deep in bedrock
Not such tones that one ever sings
Not before the invention of the clock
That halts too much freedom in it's clever way
Of tick marks like these are rudimentary
With only shackle clad messages that pray
To become the ever watching humanity sentry
That growls and teases about all
For no greater reason than it can
Encouraging the decline and fall
Of hope, like raindrops, of man
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