"Houses built of flimsy promises," is a simple yet striking image. We can all see it. A house built on a bad foundation. A house that can be blown away in the wind, like so much tissue paper, yet to be wet by tears. A house that falls on you, like a house of cards built on lies.

"Contracts with the devils of safety," which we've spoken of oft before, the siren song of comfort. Lulling you to sleep beneath the waves of stupor. Letting it all wash over you, but letting none of it reach inside.

"Pauper-paper-rings," "Word-tombs," "paper-pauper houses." And the rhyme of words continues. Pauper-paper rings, made of paper machettes, nothing to last. Because words can be erased, and written over. So much permanence to what is supposed to be the true mark of permanence in our culture. But words have come cheap.
And where do words go to die? And what do you do if you end up there? Where all the words are dead, and aren't worth the ink they were written on, words exposed to the sun till they all wash away?
And paper-pauper houses. Seems it snuck in twice, but I think it fits. Can be seen several ways, as another fake house, or a house made of words that aren't worth anything. But also perhaps where the devils of safety do not rest, for there is no safety there, but only the illusion.
For it is not like devils to give what they promise, unless it can cause even more harm.

I can definitely feel some of your other poems here, especially Residuum and some of the older pieces. And it ties well into Salt-Grave. If that was a realization of the need to find another shore, then this is an invigorating war-cry to force onself to go for it, by setting ablaze the false haven, the unsafe shore, and a call for others to do so as well.

A call to return to life. To where words live. To where they do not need to be beholden to dead paper, just to themselves, and to life.