“I have wandered far, my father;
I am the prodigal son.
I am the one whose bitter words
Have caused you infinite pain.
I am come to journey’s end
Where the towers stand guard –
At Gotham’s gate.
Swing closed the doors behind me,
Entrap the pregnant air.
Ever know this, where the land dies so dies the spirit.
And when atrophy is etched into the fiber of a people
Atrophy becomes the people. They are at one.
They are coequal.
They pervade.
They dominate.
They destroy ….