Exalted Tumbling

From the hand, up the arm,

words creep upon a page.

She, whose face is void of expression.

Having left nothing to a part of the all,

except an artificially devised

fountain of forms,

of memories and a series of

exalted ideas which today do not ring true.

As the final stroke of a clock sounds,

and the golden flame burns out,

feel now the silence.

Nothing worth saving,

her legacy beyond honor.