Brittle Music

Power is a language

That needs not a voice

Spoken by those who see a world with edges

They were never meant to touch

A resource gathered

By intemperate hands

Given to walls

That echo only of you

And others who seek it

Are simply there to control

Buried beneath the memories of

Virtue once traded

For those who practice posture in shadow

And address empty rooms

Convince themselves

Which parts are worth keeping

That height demands

A certain cruelty

And a foundation is for those

Never intended to rise

But as the trees thin

Beneath your feet

It just becomes distance

Only proof of ascent

Until the absence of sound

Feels not of peace

And more like suspension

Mistaken for strength

For the constitutions of weak men

Snap like twigs beneath the feet

Of fear

And feigned power

And in that brittle music

You can hear the forest confess

How easily

It forgets its roots