Wasteland (Poetry)

There were palaces here —
silvered fine and strong with all the hope
that went into their making.
Now all in ruins
tumbled to earth-filled foundations
and those corner stones remaining
crazed with tiny lies.
Strength was all illusion and belief
that love would forever hold them
firm and true — the bond that binds invisible.

The chill winds came —
found chinks to widen sly and slow but sure
insidious the traitor in the crowd
inviting imperfections, spoiling days
with insect doubts that crawl and dig and hide
unsteadying tall towers, let them lean.

Our lives were dreaming when the first tiles slid
to crash and shatter — negative and harsh
as claxons shedding fear into the night
the roof above unravelling so fast
the seasons crowded in as we looked up
powerless and watched the rot begin.

The hangings once so rich
grew ragged thin
and lost their sentimental colouring.
Songs fell silent and the hush
spread grey upon the ground
so even echoes lost themselves —
swallowed sound.

Cluttered rooms piled high where shadows swarmed
and moved like vagrants edging the dim lamp
and picking over treasure, scavenge now
from what remains — the mis-matched hoarded lives
that slithered, toppled, crumbled, fell away
to artefact and legend — bloodless clues
of who we were, imagined we had been.

Doorways worn to ribbons, slashed by light
catching motes in passages, falling through
the air that breathed us, parted, closed behind
and left us homeless, heartless in a land
born from rubble — brittle to the bone.