Is this progress?
The bricks and mortar of our past
crumble before modern steel
and shards of glass –
welcome to the modern age.
Glimpses into rooms once used
(carpeted silent, upholstered bare)
reveal whispers, ghosts, of lives gone by.
Today, darkened spaces, once windows, stare;
no signs of life.
Passing people skim these streets,
blind to history suspended overhead.
Unholy skeletons unseen,
left standing to witness our retreat;
the past is hanging by a thread.
I was inspired this week by a photograph my mother took – the last of old Yorkville – and knew it was only a matter of time before a poem formed around it.