There slowly bleeding out on the floor,
Some claim she was nothing but a whore.
Dead to rights it was a tale forgotten,
Forged by harriers terrible and rotten.
I remember a time in which she was great,
In which we had no need to try and inflate.
Hand on my heart each morning I made a vow,
That I gaze back on today and wonder "How?"
I seek truth behind the tendrils of a tale,
That fails to relay how greatness can fail.
No scholar still delves into the who or why,
Just the reason that we are letting her die.
Desperate to love her but deaf to her cries,
We sit back in the decay and utter our lies.
Choking to death on dust of a rising rubble,
Dead to all except whatever bursts the bubble.
Waste your tears on her if you are inclined,
Our lack of action is how we will be defined.
Historians may not live long enough to write,
Though the evidence shall beckon every night.