Hungry streets and silent lamps meet core-cold walls. Barely a window is whole, barely a roof is watertight. Drip. Drip. Drip. Even the echo of footfalls and laughter is long, long forgotten. I stop. In dappled shade, my eyes fall to the crumbling sidewalk. Beneath an age-bowed tree slumps a long storm bedraggled doll, her eyes scratched, her short arms reaching toward nothing at all. I pick it up, slumping onto a rust-bitten bonnet, the car groan-bouncing in its pools of cracking rubber. Then comes a sterile wind of no aroma, not even floral weeds; how it whistles in the languished way of horror movies. It sings a song of winter's grip, of a world smothered in ice. Abandoned streets, abandoned homes, lives once rooted in mundane stability... How they must long for those dreary days.
An abandoned city is soon home to nature, providing shelter for other members of creation.
In salute to the bonny blue sky, the abandoned city created a form of poetry from the passing wind. In whistles and sighs, in roars and silence, it was both lyric and song.
The abandoned city applauded the new brave souls that entered by opening shutters all at once, right on cue. Finally, it was awake and had good reason to remain so.
The abandoned city, in recumbent serenity, soaked in the moment - for with the rising light had come the most buoyant of birdsong encores.
The abandoned city sat upon the top of the land, serene with perfect view, as if it were the ideal model designed by God's own architect.
The abandoned city, from the golden rock to the blacktop streets, was calling out for a return of heartbeats and feet.
The abandoned city was golden in the light of eventide, as if it was nurturing some happy memory of times passed.
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