On asphalt plains, a chart of grand decay,
sun-bleached lines are all that's left of where the drivers lay.
A whale-fall of commerce hangs on currents of the air,
a ribcage stripped and bare, breathing a low-key prayer.
This is not a building. It is a mnesphere where contradictions sleep.
A silent glide through wounded glass, a fall to what is real:
the dust that coats a steel handrail, a truth you almost feel.
And the silence here is a spectrum where the histories persist,
a place where what was real, and what was wished for, coexist.
A shopping cart, on its tired side, still holds two states in rust:
the weight of sudden happiness, and the lightness of the dust.
The food court is a delta where the tides of want have been,
leaving a faint, synthetic taste of where ordinary loves could begin and end.
A single plastic straw, a crumpled paper cup—
each object holds a history that time will not give up.
A ghost of light where laughter was, and the shadow of its ache,
are superimposed on the floor, for the silence's own sake.
With distance, details start to blur, a mercy and a grace;
the snapped fork and the scuff mark dissolve in time and space.
They don't just fade, they reappear as something deep and grand:
a theorem of the human heart, drawn across the land.
What's left is the sheer weight of this un-collapsed estate.
An orchestra of silence.
A darkness woven from the light.