All those windows.
They overlook the river,
a perfect place to live,
but abandoned, left to rot,
the beautiful light filling dark rooms
with no one there,
a lack of imagination and money,
mired in the belief
that the abandoned are always so.
About this poem.
Too often, we abandoned our broken. People. Places. The loss staggers me sometimes since I too was once so broken I barely functioned.
Or it can be about buildings.
The picture is of an abandoned factory in Orange, MA.