The cracks let in the light, the dust, 
 the morning breeze, and me, 
As I discover more of how, 
 with endless certainty, 
The mighty are brought low inside 
 the endless crush of time, 
And how poorly I capture this 
 with photographs and rhyme 

Yet still, within the ruinous, 
 there is a real oblation: 
The sacrifice of lives to time, 
 in every age and nation, 
The wheels, the tracks, the pathways sought 
 that, though, must come to ends, 
Once meant (and still mean) life itself —
 love, family, and friends.