Now So Few Left

The muddy snow that leaks into the streets
And chilly wind that whips into the face
Are all I have as company right now
As I come to this old forgotten place

I do not know what once it might have been;
Not why, nor when ’twas built, nor yet by whom —
I only know it now, in this estate,
A broken-down, and frigid sort of tomb

That only has two walls left of its four,
Immodestly exposing its backside
Like it was clad in a hospital gown,
To drain the last few drops of long-dead pride

Now so few left who knew it, when, in fact
It still had all its dignity
Intact

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

Leave a Reply