The idea presented. It shows a flaw.
Little seen, and little figured, bound to shatter down the line.
Point it out, the designer flicks,
The dance of words begins, and from the footprints a plan begins to shine
But the dance requires calm, demands precision--steps true and slow
and the designers' frustration clicks.
A sudden thrust destroys the plan,
And the dance becomes ecstatic.
No longer little patters or planting
No waltz nor pirouette.
A mosh of panting, of heaving, of chanting
Destroys the ground below.
Now the idea is long forgotten.
The flaw is free to go, unfigured, bound to shatter down the line.
The designers pant in the pit below
Panting in the hole their rage has dug, too weak to think to climb
Forgotten designers don't notice the world hauling in by ton
until their tired eyes glance up and see concrete flow.