This lonesome house in desuetude
Under the shadow of tomorrow.
I sit and sketch the crumbling paint;
Bulldozers shifting loads of sorrow.
Do not mourn what must be lost.
Don't get sentimental for history.
The glass and steel have been embossed
With secret messages all hidden in machinery.
The last leathered stalwart pensioner
Creaks through the front door of The Castle past its glory.
Squinting against the sun, he considers the desert:
The infant skyscraper adds another story.

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