rotten wrought iron gate
opens to a compound in decay
nature trying to encroach
on what was stolen from her
the dilapidated walls
the creepers gone haywire
the smell of bereavement
the stone bench
covered by moss
no place to sit
no place to stand
no place to relive the glory
no place to feel again
the alcazar is in ruins
the alcazar of someones dreams
it once knew the best there was
it once was adorned by love
once it knew peace too
but now in its annihilation
it has no one dwelling
except for a few
casual, bemused or sentimental visitors
who come back
looking for their past
but the alcazar never cries
never heeds to sorrow
never screams
It has lived its day of glory
and still stands tall
welcoming all and none
with the same warmth
as it always did
--
Thought is your Enemy
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