The Architect

On the long walk from the entrance …

Entombed in a hideout
The future seems misplaced
All figures now come wrapped
In sordid desperation
In webs of conspiracy
In secret societies and insignias

The free-form traffic above reverberates
Several octaves below pitch
This disoriented age belies our machinations
We took the time to scrape clean the glade
To plug the wellspring—only to have it all turn
Septic and sink into sandy ground

In the basement
In the role of the devil
In every way a son-of-a-bitch
The odd sprig sits in ruined splendor
Among constructs and models
In perfect scale of the lost horizon

Oblivious of the chaos
We are caught in a hall of mirrors
Just as Versailles was no refuge for the Ancien Régime
The imaginary temples of the Welthauptstadt
Offer no more shelter than do twisted dreams
Right this way, gentlemen,

… for a taste of power and grandeur!


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