Builders have a strange task. They must take the materials they are given and come up with something useful. It must stand on it’s own. Like a writer who must put together words to build sentences and paragraphs.
Let’s be the builders of something that isn’t a column of smoke. I’m starting to believe, again, that we could do it. We could be the lovers people wish they were, in our long coats, with our pens in our teeth.
Across the streets, the drills had already begun, saws buzzing, and was that a jackhammer? She pulled her pillow over her head and groaned. This was not how she imagined being awoken on her day off. Where were the birds? Where was the breakfast in bed? Alex tossed the sheets aside on top of her as he climbed out of bed groggily.
builders, are society’s backbone.
We once sought to build breathe,
upon coming afloat for air,
out of that fresh yet old whom,
we called home.
We’ve built a home now,
a foundation,
for all our worries
and
woes,
now we blow,
like light autumn leaves,
whispering through dry air,
for a greener grass
to rest thy head.
With one comment after too many beers, he became one of the builders of the pedestal I put you on. With one comment of your own, you demolished the entire marble pillar, and it felt like a tragedy. But now that both of us are standing on the serpentine ground, the crystal-rich pavement, eye-to-eye as much as our respective heights allow, laughing at the darkness we spin into jokes, love no longer feels like a distant possibility, purview of the sky. Love feels like it could belong on the ground, with us.
“you see them?” you say carelessly, waving a pale hand towards the invisible barrier between us and them, unbroken glass, clear and clandestine. “they’ll never be like us,” you continue, sweeping your bangs out of your eyes, eyes dark and flickering with some unknown emotion in the muted light. you never say that we’ll never be like /them/, though we both know that’s much more honest than the former. i don’t answer you, instead reaching forward and holding your hand within my own. your inky wings flare with unease for a moment before they still, and we both look towards the others together in an unspoken wish. they’re…builders, creators, out of our reach, something we’ll never become. and we; i suppose we only know how to destroy.
Constructing something out of a plan and the fallen forest. Cutting out a sliver of warmth from cold chaos, undoing the seam with the other hand. All building is demolition. Remodeled and condemned.
have you ever thought how scary clowns are
but scarier are people
no makeup
no michevious grins
no high pitched laugh
just an average human
scarier than death
builders of an apocalypse
dreamers of an end
prognosticators of the never was
and always has been
they create
so they can destroy.
We were builders once – constructing an empire out of mere shadows, which, once they collected lights, became monoliths of their own reckoning. We forged alliances with angels who wore celestial swords like talons on their hips, and so we crashed upon the chasm of Hell with chariots raging with fire. But then we were dismantled; piece by piece, we were segmented and relocated, and now the deconstruction is complete, and the realm is riddled with never-ending holes.
Our hearts were worn, rubble surrounding us on all sides like walls we could never escape from. We could hear them, the cranes, the jack hammer, the growling and groaning of demolition, forcing us to face the reality that nothing would be the same again. They weren’t here to build, but to destroy.
Builders have a strange task. They must take the materials they are given and come up with something useful. It must stand on it’s own. Like a writer who must put together words to build sentences and paragraphs.
Let’s be the builders of something that isn’t a column of smoke. I’m starting to believe, again, that we could do it. We could be the lovers people wish they were, in our long coats, with our pens in our teeth.
We were young but we were the builders of paradise. With our own sinew and sweat, we set the cornerstones that all our other loves must kiss.
Across the streets, the drills had already begun, saws buzzing, and was that a jackhammer? She pulled her pillow over her head and groaned. This was not how she imagined being awoken on her day off. Where were the birds? Where was the breakfast in bed? Alex tossed the sheets aside on top of her as he climbed out of bed groggily.
builders, are society’s backbone.
We once sought to build breathe,
upon coming afloat for air,
out of that fresh yet old whom,
we called home.
We’ve built a home now,
a foundation,
for all our worries
and
woes,
now we blow,
like light autumn leaves,
whispering through dry air,
for a greener grass
to rest thy head.
With one comment after too many beers, he became one of the builders of the pedestal I put you on. With one comment of your own, you demolished the entire marble pillar, and it felt like a tragedy. But now that both of us are standing on the serpentine ground, the crystal-rich pavement, eye-to-eye as much as our respective heights allow, laughing at the darkness we spin into jokes, love no longer feels like a distant possibility, purview of the sky. Love feels like it could belong on the ground, with us.
“you see them?” you say carelessly, waving a pale hand towards the invisible barrier between us and them, unbroken glass, clear and clandestine. “they’ll never be like us,” you continue, sweeping your bangs out of your eyes, eyes dark and flickering with some unknown emotion in the muted light. you never say that we’ll never be like /them/, though we both know that’s much more honest than the former. i don’t answer you, instead reaching forward and holding your hand within my own. your inky wings flare with unease for a moment before they still, and we both look towards the others together in an unspoken wish. they’re…builders, creators, out of our reach, something we’ll never become. and we; i suppose we only know how to destroy.
they were builders of brains
surgically removing the extraneous tissue and residual
He said to think of ourselves as builders. layering bricks, foraging for twigs. magpies hoarding pieces of humanity.
Constructing something out of a plan and the fallen forest. Cutting out a sliver of warmth from cold chaos, undoing the seam with the other hand. All building is demolition. Remodeled and condemned.
They bring mountains up from the ground. They create landscapes like the world has never seen.
have you ever thought how scary clowns are
but scarier are people
no makeup
no michevious grins
no high pitched laugh
just an average human
scarier than death
builders of an apocalypse
dreamers of an end
prognosticators of the never was
and always has been
they create
so they can destroy.
We were builders once – constructing an empire out of mere shadows, which, once they collected lights, became monoliths of their own reckoning. We forged alliances with angels who wore celestial swords like talons on their hips, and so we crashed upon the chasm of Hell with chariots raging with fire. But then we were dismantled; piece by piece, we were segmented and relocated, and now the deconstruction is complete, and the realm is riddled with never-ending holes.
Our hearts were worn, rubble surrounding us on all sides like walls we could never escape from. We could hear them, the cranes, the jack hammer, the growling and groaning of demolition, forcing us to face the reality that nothing would be the same again. They weren’t here to build, but to destroy.