House of the Centenary - WRVTH

Text pressed and formed

Bound by rubble and lead

17 bold scribbles and scratches

Hidden under a cloud of graphite dust

A constant smear under a heavy hand

Yields magma from every movement inscribed

Igneous rock set in place

Was swept away easily by four winds

At that moment

The illusion of good times

Would shine clearer than those 3 poignant lines

When the prose was first composed

It was written out in lead

Malleable

Erasable

Years passed

Pages turned

All it took was a sleight of hand

For a permanence to solidify

Further into the notebook

Even the author himself couldn’t see the transition stand

It happened so subtly

Yet it happened so quick

Structures easily erased

Became forged by steel and ink

Gravel that manifested a message

That wasn’t his choice to preserve

The author was always tortured

But new lies would bring him relief

And if he gets a chance to write the ending

It would be such of an ideal release

But until that moment passes

He will slowly tear down his beliefs

By staying away from the open windows

And to honor his musings as complete