His blank façade was made for tales:
Where nothing lives the world exists
And meanings flood to fill the space.
Where monsters lurk we build our homes.
The venerated beast and man:
A test to all who leapt and prayed.
Then later he was hid away:
His appetites too close, too true.
And in that inhumed form was left
The residue of lust and death,
The tales of innocents sacrificed,
The tales of writers, tales of pride.
Our monstrous elements abide
However many times we’re slain.