I linger at the precipice
of a long-lost past,
bountiful in its splendour,
but wiped clean by a disease.

The musty scent of clothes
once worn by this great past, of
the quarantined bags of tricks and toys,
once spun by the same grand

Past the grove of blacks and reds,
lie dormant coal-covered remains of the same time,
Passed. Warped figures stalk the realms, and
I call out to that pitiful past.

Time trickles down the wall,
Thicker than blood, than water.
Globs of it paint the room
White. The color of sterilization.
This was the centre.

My fingers delve into the stiff shelves,
Abandoned. Left to rot in the wake of the future.
Dusty hangers pretend to be pilfered treasure chests,
Time crawls along the floor in agony.

They say that
The City of Gold disappeared,
For eternity, its bounty
forever vanished.