The dampness of many years lies in the walls.
Dark shadows cast on the paint, once bright,
now dull, lifeless.
Sand where once was sparkles
The walls whisper:
Repetition is perfection.

The paths walked through are black,
like ink,
from repeated steps
covering the once-new and impressionable grain.
Dust is thick, fills the air,
makes it stale.

Windows hold nothing
more than reflections,
not of you, but similar faces.
Repetition is perfection?

The regurgitated traits
hang in the webs,
tucked away in corners,
but always waiting for you to give in.

Mannequins stand by as examples,
screaming, ‘be like me’.
They stand hollow,
posed in neat, tidy rows.
Glazed eyes stare in your direction,
beckons for you to follow.

Though the breeze may blow them shut,
the doors must open.