I wanted to post a poem this week. The following is that poem.
A spire on a tower in steel is the work
of man. The base was made from sweat
and iron in a plot laid out from the vision
of mortals and stretching to the sights of
Gods. The track the beams follow, goes
from the sullen earth up to a bolt and rivet
vanishing point a quarter mile high.
Men worked on this titan for a three year stretch,
or so claims a brass marker base plate. The foundry
where it was made saw many of the same men who
built the tower. The sweat was the same. Names changed
with the jobs, but the blood was still the same.
The window of opportunity was a few decades short.
Men capitalized, and this tower is their gain. The sky was torn,
not scratched, and the men stared at their beast. The spire is the grey iron of Jehovah,
and for that some thought these few madmen. Someone couldn’t allow this
pyramid of rebar. No one permitted a monument of this scope to exist,
and no one would let it be achieved. However, man has never
needed permission to create.
A window, scores of stories in the air, is the vantage of this flight. Never,
has work like this so soared. The giants of before are an urban prairie beneath
the weight of this hulk in the sky. How was it made and who could have seen it
are not questions to ask in the presence of this requiem in steel. This rapture was
raised in spite of no one letting the men build. No need for allowance, they birthed
a silver leviathan because not one man could stop them.