Like a rotten house,
oh how time flies.
Through empty streets,
the air being colder.
To stand at focal point,
and just look straight.
It all seems dim,
but yet like fate.
With dry large hands,
and busy eyes.
The tired men,
and starved flies.
It all seems gruesome,
to be one atom of the universe,
and yet so different,
so meaningful without words.
A hope diving from ground up,
to be new and refreshed.
To be rebuilt and beautiful,
the destruction of memories best.
It craves to be reborn again,
with a youth up to date each century,
but I, at focal point, stare out beyond,
craving my best memories.