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Steeple of Pain

Fruitless Effort

By Charles OreganoPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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You, are a steeple, and I, the mortar which holds you at the seams.

The very artifact that keeps you projected so highly, the stuff of dreams.

It is my duty to never break, for if I did, then you would surely follow.

I, the mortar, such a simple piece to such an intricate design, hoisting you ever so gratefully into the sky.

Thankful for every moment I can support such a feat, no matter the toll it takes on me.

Each brick, pain, as if fashioned from your tears. No matter the pain, you kept laying them over the years.

Like a mason whose hobby had turned into a job, you seem to find pleasure in the pain that you cause.

You, the steeple, on a quest for superiority, towering over Notre Dame, next, perhaps Cologne.

I, the mortar, clutching onto the seams, breaking apart, ever so slightly.

You, were a steeple, and I, the mortar which held you at the seams.

I was the very artifact that kept you projected so highly, the stuff of dreams.

It was my duty to never break, but I did, and you surely followed.

I, the mortar, such a simple piece to such an intricate design, I once hoisted you ever so gratefully into the sky.

Thankful for every moment I could support such a feat, no matter the toll it took on me.

Each brick, pain, as if fashioned from your tears, No matter the pain, you kept laying them over the years.

Like a mason whose hobby had turned into a job, you seemed to find pleasure in the pain that you caused.

For twas' not your tears which fashioned the stone, no, it was my own.

I often wept for you, your lust never ended, no matter how much I suffered, your will was unrelenting.

I could not bring myself to let you fall, I would never let that happen, no, if you fell I was determined to do so as well.

As if Gabriel joined Lucifer on that godforsaken trek, plummeting downward until nothing but bedrock was left.

I, the mortar, such a simple piece to such an intricate design, now ground into nothing more than mere dust, how sublime?

sad poetry
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