Poem: Tourist of the Lost

Tourist of the Lost

Dark, empty windows.
Layers of walls.
Bricks and stones of different color.
Layers of walls.
A smattering of grass.
The smell of history.

It is outside the interest of tourists.
No one lived here. No one died.
There is no told gilt or marble.
No renaissance paintings.
You have to wander off the path to find it.

And yet, it calls to you.
Places like this do. People too.
Off the path. Away. Quieter
and darker, full of secret histories,
inhospitable to visitors and yet,
for some reason, your picture albums
are full of such places, leaving you
the tourist of the lost.

About this poem

The picture was taken at the ancient baths in Rome.


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