A sense of sadness about the grand palace
Despite its grandeur and time-proven status
Behind the wistful patina a sense of constraint
Of blatant guilt behind the faded gilt
And most of all a feeling of stasis
As if nothing in that place had changed for an age
Everything dust-choked in its rightful place
Seat of heirs, manse of lords, words wind
And all the bluffer’s air stuffed into a bulging sack
Will not save from fate the bog’s plaything
Paper crown, play kings
Only blood sufficient for sating, graven images of Satan
Before which cravens splay, begging their unlikely inkling’s manifestation
Malice bought half the amazing crafts in the attic
A bust of Pallas by the rafters tattooed by ravenstep
In this place a faceless ancestor never slept but walked
Spiritedly as a spirit the quiet landings and flour-dusted pantry, stalking
The talkers, doomed ever to observe like an orphan does his beloved birds.
Alchemisland 
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