Masked
men
Plates
of white
Tailor-trimmed
In
skull-black
Artistry.
Columns
of withered
Wearisome
antiquity,
Shying
away from the
Fact
they are historic,
All
they feel is ancient.
If
restoration
Is
all that can be
To
save their days
To
share,
To
brighten their reds and greens
To
offer future children
Countless
days to stare
Is
that enough—
For
these elders to keep breathing
