Triumph

creation is an empire
whose life evokes joy, shout and dance
whose decay only leaks from the fringes
seeps out from gutters in our ghettos
there's always more to an empire, always
more than marbled pillars, totems thrust
to glory in the sun, always
more than tended gardens, vines outstretched
to produce delight, always
the darker corners, shadow-kept crevices
who encroach and wait at the edges
between an empire's ecstasy and decay, [ecstasy vs. height]
Nietzsche's décadence misconceived, is nearby
days from now, late or soon
will force an empire's hand, attempt a
coup d'etat, and counter all prior claims of victory,
to encounter the reigning victor as defeated,
to supplant this empire's life-dance
and suspend its reigning ignorance [an ignorance long since pervading]
and enthrone in its place the inevitable,
the cold, the uncompromised and calculated,
the words to rehabilitate the world:
creation, no longer empire, but system
creation, no longer joy, but decay
a system is moving toward its ruins
soon or late, this system will fail;
any tenacious joy remaining
seeps from these reversely marked fringes
and is slipping toward decay, it's slipping,
slipping toward decay.