A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Skull cracked,
Jagg'd edged rafters scratch the grey sky,
A dark victim, yawning to catch cold rain's fall
As morning unsettles and storms roll by.

Fractures of tile litter long rotted floor
In this once precious pile
That is treasure no more.
Cave-painting tatters flap at the wall,
Tired of their fashion,
Now soaked in the squall.

Stone-smashed sockets for eyes
To reflect, in shades, the blood-lit sunrise,
Made to mindlessly howl
With the wind's blind rage -
Where sashes would stutter and folk would scowl,
A summer breeze flutter the unturned page.

Feeling through bars
Barely sealing the cage,
Brittled and gristled,
Toughened by age,
Droop impotent arteries
Drained of their power
To shock with surprise,
Or to clock this last hour.

Mould interrogates history's stain
Gagging it, silencing memory's pain.
Sad, unsold, brave but unsound,
The old house, stubbornly
Standing its ground,
Waits for the curtain-call
Hung from a chain.
A date with a wrecking-ball
Swung to its brain.

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