Recoiled skies pass in reckless abandon
The wind blows through the windows,
Prickly pear and other thorny things sprouting limbs
And creeping up the walls of this old sheriff’s office
Remain the only living occupants.
If walls could talk, they mightn’t choose to speak…
We leave things hanging on hall trees,
And mounted above mantles
Small reminders that there was life inside at
But the bones and blood
Of these buildings runs cold,
Until there is nothing but the
Forlorn faith of somber cries
From voices long underground.
Ghost towns and old railyards mark the skin of
Long bleached from the sun and
Rusted away from unfair weather.
It’s a wonder what this place must’ve been
Before time turned executioner,
Before people picked up their shadows
And blew away like rain-flit flames
Struggling for a life that is no longer theirs.
Now the frames wilt
And weather away in rural decay,
Things that once housed, fed, and warmed
Now sink back into deformed Earth.
Laughes do not echo off the walls,
The beams do not support evidence of anything
But a waylaid wandering.
The boarded windows hold no fingerprints.
But yet, these places perch on the roadside like
A cemetery below intrepid skies
Of the inevitable obsolete.