A Pome a Day for a Year

Lay with me, oh spirit, for this floor is comfy
and is my resting spot,
for the brittle shelving has been my undoing
and plentiful metals
come pouring down
amassing in heaps,
my temple a foundation.

Oh gentle spirit, oh kind spirit,
you see the hexagons,
the sextet of sides, etched
burnished, crafted within square blocks
of circuitry and plastic,
forges of power to rival mighty Thor,
whirring, spinning, illuminating, concentrating
and atop the head.

We see, oh spirit, we see such marvels,
from a society technological,
to create power from potential,
to regulate the waves of electric
in direct fashion,
and our hubris has led us to this zone
of fall, where man horizontally begets
why they could not reinforce wood.