She isn’t warm. She doesn’t glow
the way the travel posters show.
She looms. She leans. She cuts the sky—
a spire built to ask us why.
Why build a skeleton so high?
Why forge a cage for stars to die?
I climbed her ribs. I felt the sway—
the breathless height, the slow decay
She doesn’t hum with sweet romance.
She thrums like iron in a trance.
A war drum dressed in rivets, rust—
a tower made from fractured trust.
I touched the beam. It burned my hand—
not hot, just wrong, like hollow land.
Like something man was not to shape,
yet shaped it still. We can’t escape.
Beneath her legs, the lovers kiss.
They think she’s made for scenes like this.
But I looked up, and saw her stare.
She’s not in love. She’s just still there.