Past

Past

There is no life left in this place,

Its buildings empty, bereft of sound.

Its colours drained from walls and curtains,

windows glass lay shattered on the ground.

 

There is no life left in this place,

a kitchen still, no tap drips here.

The oven stands forever lacking heat,

dusty mugs forever thirsty,

for there is no beer.

 

There is no life left in this place,

the cold harsh light is fading fast.

This a place where death resides,

this place that bears the name of past.

 

©Adam Lucy 2016