Hour Eleven


Like a needle threaded through clouds,
The skyscraper sits atop the world
Gleaming glass and metal – indestructible
Pointing to the future spread out before us.
Every beat of its silver drum
A new wave of humanity’s flag,
Another feather in technology’s cap,
A climb so high, we dare not look down,
Refusing to ask who is still there,
To catch us when we fall.

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