Doors have rusted on their hinges
the sounds of excavation and the shadow climb
on the roof beneath the starry sky.
whispers settle as dust on the pavement.
the night, the following day, for months, years, centuries.
 
There is a long pause almost always after the 
stream of chatter; each voice resonates pleas 
and cries. The posters with dense blue colour
break out and burn in low flame of halogen lights
new syllables etch post truth, sin and shame.
 
Entrapped in ink pots, each message carries
shouts and remonstrations, the musty smell
of history wafting in all night in the gathering
darkness. but the war begins now in mind’s eye
sharpen the blades of dishevelled alphabets.