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Feb 2016
Many waiting ruins from yesteryear,
Begin to beg for play, for sharing.
Spaces left hollow, only by lack of play,
By lack of bustling movement.

These ruins wail the aural ecstase,
Like a holographic butterfly effect,
Still there, yet causing memories,
Effecting wanton, screaming for times gone by.

These ruins they lay still, a picture yet,
Passers by gossip the new owners,
Its orphaned attendees are those who scream,
In their minds, in their hearts.
A poem for a meeting place recently shut down, for music and celebration. There were other functions to the building beforehand, hopefully still others.
Christopher Richard-Francis
Written by
Christopher Richard-Francis  Ireland
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