ESB’s tent is broken: the last echos of *NM*
Clutch and sink off the top page. The sound of uki
Crosses the blackness, unread. The readers are departed.
JFO, run softly, till I end my post.
ESB bears no new messages, announcements of carnage fests,
Discussions of Eternal, comparisons of weapons, trolls, spammers,
Or other testimony of activity. The readers are departed.
And the CLIQUE, the loitering heirs of the old Bungie crew;
Loched, have left no addresses.
By the ruins of TGI I sat down and wept…
JFO, run softly, till I end my post,
JFO, run softly, for I speak not loud nor boast.
But at my back from an unlocked maintenance closet I hear
The slam of a door, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.