Things of old
are survivors of a bygone age
remnants, left behind
to see slow crumble to oblivion
What foot trod there
what hand touched with practiced indifference
what eye unseeingly saw everyday
what tongue talked of it as nothing out of the ordinary?
What built it and what felled it?
And unchained it
from a being, now long dead
from the embrace of bygone lives
Doomed to be
a victim of fickle Time
an aimless phantom
Until retaken and remade
to grow old again.
June 29 2008
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