The paint warped upon sight, like tears Over time falling silently to the decayed Cycle below. I felt its bleak wine pealing's Upon my fingers And tasted its age.
The aroma of so manyΒ Β memories of what Was before of all that touched upon its Brass holdings and It screamed in defiance Shut so many times, now unending closure.
It wanted to be open to the world not Subjugated in locked form. Its motions Were static locked in an unending cycle Of nothing. It was tearing flakes upon the floor.
It wanted to creak upon the breeze to feel The wind to scratch at its rings of now slain Of forgotten time. its creaks are its needing To be open to the world once again.