Day 217 - Weeping Disaster

The crisscrossing arches make a perfect scene

That curves viciously to trap one inside

Within such demonstrations even peace is mean

Each droplet representing thousands more cried

You see some warped beauty in this place

Or rather watery expression of endless time

But such is only comparable to death's embrace

And the path to it is a maliciously certain crime

You shall not ever spy the disaster's violence

Until ripples of blood interrupt the original liquid clarity

It spirals out and about in raging patterns of nonsense

Leaving what was once a solid base in the pottery of disparity

Solid messages no longer claim any single form or shape

Instead they mourn in drooping moments of lying

No super hero's long lost adventure wrapped in a cape

Just more evidence of infinitely desolate crying

You should have no experience weeping

Or not near enough to sculpt out a fountain

But the dread of man is somehow forever seeping

Like the ever growing satin layered red blush of sin

You need only a name, one as harsh as a brick

To carve out like icicles on trees in the winter

And finally a skin just as rough and tirelessly thick

That is so hardy it is never even challenged by a splinter