short writing

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the booth is shuttered and the stage unkempt
where memory kept up the rent with showings
of old tragedies and feeble-minded puppeteers
but the crowds no longer come and fill the seats
one day the projectionist left his dusty confine
the neighborhood no longer the familiar haunt
crumbling under the weight of passing years
aged brick bound with a weeping mortar
a hopeful vigil held in vain, seeking return
to the familiar days of the Depression
where pittance was exception to absence
one day, this place too will be razed and lost
purpose past, a false front to a old facade
there is no need left for this darkened hall
all tickets punched for an empty set
the sign outside reads - "this space for let"


M.

Very powerful, reminded me a little of a book I'm reading at the moment by Cormac McCarthy called 'The Road'
Any more?

"You'll never know whence the wind did blow"
she reminds me as she lay upon the clouds
rendered immobile by the great storm within
where does one reach to take hold the moon
whose soft looks belie the cruelty she keeps
dark hours alone among the fathoms of pitch


M.