after a while, it became so forgotten that the stories it once remembered became a fiction, and held no promise to anyone except the walls it sat beside.
they were always attentive, giving every last brick to the tale.
I think it was when the rust set in that it went a bit mad. the dementia kept the raccoons company, and the roaches at bay.
it could hear itself laughing, and when the wheels finally fled the scene, it roared with contentious hilarity so loudly the squirrels almost heard it.
but in reality it sat alone, desolate, quiet – silent to all but itself. the spiders had a name for it and told their children to steer clear, and the ravens thought it was haunted.
in truth, the ghosts held themselves in a photo,
relegated to an album; made real by the viewing,
and whole by the tales others could tell.
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