Oh say,
what a shame,
wooden shrine
coated with the breath of ghosts,
carpet of fingers
snapped, or arthritic,
wrenched from the wrist
in some grisly surgical procedure.

Tumble of rock, a table
out for the count,
a lone chair with a prime view
of what has become,
become of the place,
crumbling, stale,
wood daggers a derelict alphabet
dormant on stage.

The tunes, long gone,
harmonies engulfed by the breeze,
auditorium left almost lifeless,
state of half-eclipse
with the punctuation of a thousand strangers
and just the first strands
of spring sunlight bleeding
through the windows.