February 7, 2010
Webs collect in decaying stalls,
lights flicker sporadically out in the halls.
The ceiling begins to crumble to the ground,
dripping water is the only sound.
The floor is halfway rotted through,
vines creep through windows up to the roof.
Open doors to small, empty rooms,

mirrors in corners, but nothing moves.
Not much is left from those years before,
But it looks like an asylum now even more.

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Milo! said...
Mar. 24, 2010 at 9:05 pm
This is a great poem because it's something we can all relate to at one point or another.
You should check out some of my stuff. I think you would like it.
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