It is a rite of passage,

To travel up the dusty, broken stairs
To the second floor
of the once abandoned barn
to see the noose,
The old basketball hoops,
The spray painted pentagram on the floor
Left by someone your age
Many years ago. There are holes
In the floor, so you get to your knees
And look down them,
Greeting whoever is there below.
No camera captures a picture
Better than mine:
The October light dying
Through the slats in the boarded windows,
Dust undisturbed for who knows how long,
And in a few hours, an open sky of stars,
Begging you to ask them
What this world holds.