Dark Windows

The factory lies, bright and abandoned
in the January snow,
flashing by your window as you travel,
a blur of red brick and dark windows
that is gone as suddenly as it appears,

yet stays with you,
the image of abandonment,
empty, deemed unworthy
by blind men, who only saw
the cost of restoration,

not the joy of it, who no longer
believed in possibility,
and like a lover who loves no more,
who walks away, content
to let you slowly die, a relic.

History.
No more.

But you know the truth.
That light still flies in the windows,
that the bones are good,
the soul still strong, waiting,
only for someone
to believe again.

About this poem. 

It’s no secret I love old buildings, and that I see them less as ruins than opportunities. I see people that way too, I am afraid, having died and been reborn myself a time or two in life, brought to life by people, and a God, who saw beyond the ruin, to the soul.

Tom