Based on the Tower of Babel story, largely.

~*Nimrod*~

Intaglio,
Arabesque, oh glory gold!
My requiem sublime…
~Your tapered tears found wings, I see~
Hunter Blue, dry-eyed, demonic, you swept this night-drowned urban web,
Scattering the ashes of my borrowed dream...
A bruise-winged jeremiad taints the tattered porcelain breeze.
Yours were the beaded prophecies that clustered...
In the fluted curves of a funeral rose.
Oh, my darling, you were cold:
Cloudless clarion ice, and...
Moon-cinders
Shivering.
Well I was colder...
Than arctic stars and sarcophagi, and so much less lovely:
I was dead meat hanging in a butcher’s window.
And you – you – were Nimrod.

Our blood still haunts this vanished Realm
Citrus cloudscapes welter, sweltering hot and listless,
Oh, to tread the blushing streets of Babylon, where secrets singe the scented sky!
And pollen dust strokes the sand-parched earth,
With exquisite abuse.
The Tower, Milord, it falls...

Nimrod~
Alive, enshrined and laughing!
In the sleeping, purple storm you spread your ice-feathered wings:
Your eyes, hollow graves,
Transfixed
Before the blunt, elongated snout of a Vauxhall Astra,
Somewhere on the M14.
Where the haunted tide of night will shrink and shrivel,
With the cloying kiss of dawn.

The years have stolen your stars, have drowned your threnodic dreams,
And suffused your water with wine,
But still, she softly calls your name.
(You know...
Semiramis only ever loved you when you wept.)
Venus flytrap lashes clamping shut,
To sheathe an iridescent gaze.
And ensnare these sweet, stillborn memories, of sand, of sun-scorched streets,
Of shadow, and so much more:

The Tower, Milord...
It falls.