Arc and burn
Arc and burn
Two things made one
By Prometheus’ treasure
Stolen from the sun.
Clad in armor
For a battle
Not for honor
Or glory
But for the
Building blocks
Of our lives
As those men
Of old in the
Pictures, legs
A-dangle and
Little black boxes
Filled with
tiny thoughts
Of love
By
Loving hands
Arc and burn
From 60
stories High
they Look down
on a world
That somehow
Can still look down
on them
Gazes icy and blue
Hard as the nature
Of their trade
Honest done
And honest made
Rich men
in Character
In family
And the stories
They tell
But not by the
Hours of the life
They sell.