The Probe

Layers fall from walls like sunburnt skin,
And as with Man’s facades
That cannot be maintained,
They weep their loss and long neglect.

Mosaic shards of sunlight probe the ruin
Yet no clues give hint to what has been,
And the door that once was locked
Perhaps is now become the key?

Speculation’s fancies reign supreme. 

Anno Domini

When the door last closed,
Which Rex or Regina ruled?
Which battles raged and where?
Had Suffrage been born
Or the Atom split?

Had Man beheld his World
From a waterless lunar sea?

Witness

Has it seen both talk and tears
But then … of what and why?
Had plots been hatched and scandal hidden?
Had birth or death been acted out?
Had Poverty been at home,
Starvation its unwelcome guest,
Or had Rank and Plenty
Swelled its timber?
Did it vibrate to Laughter’s timbre
And children’s strident clamour?

Did ever Love shine upon it?

The Closing Hand

Did some infamous hand,
Or perhaps a poet,
Close the door as they walked to fame?
Perhaps some calloused claw
Rasped against its wood
Or maybe it was fingers
That tingled to a petal’s velvet?

Just fantasies,
For still… the hand’s unknown.

Reasons

Was the door closed
On an old life left behind,
A portal to new beginnings,
Or simply on the daily grind?

Was there regret or joy? 

Closure

Not quite tight-closed,
The door invites investigation,
But defies attempts to prise its past,
And so, its prying fruitless,
The defeated Sun moves on …

Yet, still the fancies linger …