I walk through an empty entrance to a museum I know.
Shoe sounds on tile floor resounding. echo
Nothing new to see.
The collection on exhibit, whatever’s arranged here, is only discarded remnants,
crumbling to dust and ash and fading fast. what happened?
What a question.
Ripe decomposing mantles each piece – no peace, just ticking time
and a wafting tendril of melancholy.
I recognize the mischievous changeling getting a perverse kick out of ruining
anticipation into dread.
That other sound? used-up peals of hope in the echoing hall,
palpable emptiness. My impulse is to follow the maze of inevitable shadow-shapes
But I run until I reach the door.