Flockhart's Constant

Poem

The House we walk by

With no eagerness of paint

nor façade of elegance

a mere nothingnance intrinsic

as you describe the relationship

of work done to work ask for.

But in those dark murmurings fantastic

we did not see the real changes blossoming

out of the bodies built so sublime

that contorted the inner face 

of those we thought we knew.

Or see the controlled anger

of the plates that people walked-over.

They lived in a house that we walk by,

and spoke in nothing  that we did not understand.