You spend far too much time breaking into abandoned buildings,
factories, churches, and homes long ago left,
windows barred with slabs of plywood,
doors locked from within.
The word is appropriate, abandon,
with its dictionary meaning of behavior
without consideration for consequences.
Miriam Webster would be proud of these empty spaces,
left like lovers, when they no longer have value,
and like abandoned lovers, there is disbelief and then ripples,
upsetting an ever-growing ring of people, real people,
not numbers or theories, but hearts and souls,
Locked out the spaces they once worshiped
and built their own lives upon.
In a generation, the locked doors become blight.
Windows break in storms and vandalism.
Bricks fall, one by one. Flowers grow in the cracks. Roofs leak.
Beams rot and bow. Graffiti appears, fades, and appears anew.
And the doors remain locked from within.
No one, it seems has keys.
No one, it seems, is interested in bringing the dead to life.
There are consequences to resurrection,
and that is not the purpose of abandonment.
Better to lock the doors and pretend nothing exists.
It is easier. Cheaper. It causes less pain
to the one who once owned love, but has moved on,
still in possession, but without interest
in another raising the ruins.
THese are the buildings I enter in.
These are the souls I listen to,
not believing in my power of ressurection –
I have long ago proved I have none –
but to capture the last glimpses of life
in these empty shells. To capture
and remember them before they are forever gone.
About this poem
About buildings, which are too often abandoned. About people, who are also abandonded.