After a while, it became forgotten. The stories
it once remembered were a fiction, and held no promise
to anyone except the walls it sat beside.
They were always attentive, giving every last
brick to the tale.
Rust and madness set in together.
It thought it could laugh, but it was merely the wind
and rain beating against windows and time.
It dreamt of open roads and love on vinyl.
In reality it sat alone, desolate, quiet – silent to all but itself.
The spiders had a name for it and told their children to steer clear.
The ravens would gossip about it being haunted.
In truth, the ghosts held themselves in a photo,
relegated to an album; made real by the viewing,
and whole once more by the tales others could tell.
Photo Credit and Poem Inspiration to Neil Davies.