Although I wrote this for a class at NSA, it really has nothing to do with any classes. When I was in Pompeii, I could see over the broken fences and iron bars, I could see some special mosaics and a gazebo. Maybe these were special because they were closed, but I like to think otherwise. So a Pompeii poem it is:

Gnostic floods now roar inside, but not in
paths of sacred reconstructions,
closed for sorry amutations.
Iron bars stand here, a gate that’s wooden, rotten.
Now, where thousands used to sit or wander
through the fields in afternoons or
drag their groceries past this eyesore,
Pompeii’s bars have taken all her thunder.
Locked behind this fat façade, you only
look where glass gazebos hide their
colored chips in walls of brick, where
crumbling stones can leave the beauty lonely.
Genius, not for human eyesight’s feasting.
Ruins meant for those that scurry
grounded. Lizards, not in hurry,
walk alone in silence, Pompeii praising.