Towers of porcelain white as the bone. Stack into your fateful columns. With plates poised high enough, to reach the gods. And spines grown long enough, to become them. When you reach your snow white pinnacles. With ice peaks too fickle to rival the sun. Fall then as humbly as the snow. Crash then as loudly as the cities are silent. Let grief mingle there in between the pieces, and pieces be buried as they have fallen. Dawning in the absence of towers and sound. State agreements with warnings passed. Unto streets whose ears have left them.