It stands as a magnificent shell.

Echos without sound.

A place abandoned long ago.

Hollow in spirit past the point of recovery.

Rotted while still standing.

Sorrow without feeling the tears.

***

Secretive corruption.

Worming its way through all that would be good.

Hidden behind a facade of what people look for.

Taking over any parts not protected.

Eating at the foundation like termites,

Until only shreds of tanbark remain.

***

Horrible sense of danger without immediate threat.

Like the floor might drop out at any moment.

A hated but necessary alertness.

Permanent danger disguised as common comfort.

Wrapped up in the robes of tradition.

Beckoning inwards.

***

All these types of empty I will run from.

My very existence depends on it.

I will not support any of it.

The cycle shall not continue.

The empty ruins shall fall.

If not by my own sledgehammer, another’s.