Dust, Dirt, and Peeling Paint

Lines of cracks crawl up
the rented facade of power
between fading slogans now
missing flakes of paint.

Dust and dirt sticks to the wall
from passing storms that
take their leave but still
hang in the air like howls.

Outside we wait and watch
for the first bricks to fall,
in growing southern winds,
as sun-bleached paint peels.

Lines of cracks crawl up
the rented facade of power,
and the long-hanging bell
tolls, tolls, tolls.

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