You can’t compare your plastic rolly-chair,
Whose wheels will break with weight and time, I swear,
To wicker weaved in wood and grown from ground,
Which joined, when moved, elicit honest sound.
Your floors will never squeak, though they will groan,
In complaint of the empty minds they’ve known,
Whose lack of touching lofty things will weigh,
Too much for floors unknown to rain and day.
Much less the walls–time’s testament it’s true,
Containing hallowed halls minds have passed through,
Who questioned ideas older than the bricks,
That will survive; there’s mortar in their mix.