Nimble fingers upon sore arms work in the placement
Of the seed that births the truth,
And it is the same fingers on the same arms
That destroy their own product.
But the same fingers on different arms,
Arms that have not begun to work,
Set fire to the words that surround this blossom.
Then again, there isn't much difference.
We are quite the self-destructive bunch you know,
Set on ruining our own ideas
And knocking down the same towers we build.
But it will not collapse
If fisticuffs are brought upon the top.
You must tear out its Roots
And watch it sob as it falls in one piece
And becomes a million once it hits the earth.
A city may stand with definite architecture,
Containing thousands of identical sentries,
But you will always destroy your own,
Encountering the origin,
And it will cripple to the ground,
Taking down the ones adjacent
Like dominos made to fall.
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