Stone nightmares hang like bats off the edge of the
rain pocked buildings that line the street.
They were part of a hospital once, students in crisp,
white coats learnt the mysteries of life within their walls.
Echoes reverberate through the now empty skeletons,
of the scratching of pens,
coughs,
wails,
silence,
countless lives beginning and ending.
They're due to be torn down; bulldozers edge closer by the day,
cranes swing overhead,
drills shatter concrete.
Still, the gargoyles do their best.
I find comfort in their gnashing jaws and bottomless sockets -
amongst the structures popping out the ground like
worms during a storm,
they remain as a reminder of the past: an imprint, double exposure.
The old, shoulder to shoulder with the new,
a present memory.
Each day, as I draw the blind, I look to see what else has gone;
time marches on,
unrelenting,
mercilessly,
but the past, too, sinks in its claws -
a gargoyle on my shoulder.
What a glorious horror to call a friend.