The history
of the world
decays within
these vaunted halls.
Bones of men
whose legacies
have long passed into dust,
now scattered,
or drifted into drains
to swirl and sink
amid the sewage
These vaunted halls
of vainglorious scholars
and savage soldiers,
This labyrinthine lair
of painted women
and holy mothers,
running children
and feral dogs
This ornate gauntlet of
open secrets and
private trysts,
This once- proud venue,
where learned men
hammered out their thoughts and beliefs,
vociferous in their ferocity,
gesticulating like tribal dancers
This enviable marketplace,
with its bright colors, shady deals,
and the rush of winning a well-wrought
haggling session,
Is now the place I skulk,
and stalk, and catch the rats
that bite me in my sleep,
and take the bodies and coin
of unwary travelers.
My kingdom,
a silenced ruin of
damp and crumbling marble,
dim sunlight,
and solitude.
These vaunted halls
will return to their glory,
stone by stone, page by page,
man by man.
But for now,
I feast.
Beyond Panic 