Streaking stripes arrest my gaze.
They lie stagnant; motionless; silent.
Bleached blocks fill their chasms with void space.
Tall walls of brick build boundaries to contain the great nothing.
Triplet tunnels table-torn mine relief from The Mocking Ore.
“Fill me. Fight me!
Leave me or line me.
Stain me. Sign me.
Flee me or find thee!”
-this is the tone that rings from the mouth of The Mocking Ore.