It sits on the hill
as an empty skeleton,
its residents vanished,
the mortgage no more,
who knows if it ever had one?
Now it's a monument
to something unknown and untold,
a vestige
from when trams
rolled up and down
the coal-choked hills.
The decrepit door
allows whispers
to cross the silent threshold.
The tumbledown walls
long surrendered to the moss.
Somewhere in that ruin
the chipping of pickaxes
resonates in the dark.
No comments:
Post a Comment