Dereliction I

Brick russet as dead foxes,

torn walls and empty boxes.

Paraplegic doors ineptly

Grasp at squalid confidence.

 

Slate grey, dirty hands,

broken hopes and lying charms.

Slippery they jaunt insanely

Thrust like frigid countenance.

 

Dreams who, barely grew,

now their withered dying fruit.

Childlike hand delightedly

Clasped in pallid expectance.

 

Ends behind, dimly dark

caress him kiss him, sharks.

What wildest eye immensely

Observes a rigid common sense?

 

Down behind, god and cash,

little hopes burn, they smash.

Never remembered openly:

The bright new screams of dissonance.

 

The motivation of Derelection I came as I walked past an abandoned old school building, left behind in a desire for modernisation, newness.  The many lost memories that belong to a place, the dangers of forgetfulness, of being too practical (in this case defined as ‘common sense’), of what present joys can be lost in the effort to gain a future perfection, were at the forefront of my mind.

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