This place.
Nothing is old.
If there were
it would stick out like a chick from its shell.
This place.
It has a soul
It has a spirit
But it does not speak.
It can not speak
it does not have a voice yet.
It has no story to tell.
This place.
No spirits dwell here.
No great joy,
No humbling sorrow.
These walls have never vibrated from passion filled nights
echoed from early morning fights.
The very ground itself would tear away that which is too weak.
This place.
Nothing is old.
If anything was you would have to listen.
You would have no choice but to hear.
It would scream so softly only your soul could perceive.
This place.
©Christopher F. Brown 2009
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