Half mast

Tied twixt tired fates, all trouble
Their fatuous flags rooted in rubble
Not a one sure or substantial
Whipping in the wind
First a face and then all edges
Some wound tight and some just fringes
Ne'er congruent to the eye these
Claims of somethingness
Who strung these standards is some wonder
Afore my foot they must have wandered
Why? To cast a vote for squalor?
Something sits amiss.
Maybe once some city sat great marked upon their base
Maybe "once" is future and I simply must but wait
Maybe they mean naught at all
Just cloth marked pride before a fall
Like that great emperor, the gall
Claim'd luxury in light of null
And which blank sign should I then follow?
All ignorance
No bliss
No mystery but this.