It’s just a shell.
Concrete, metal, wood
It breathes not—
only at the times we,
who inhabit it, do.
It is cold,
only made warm by us
when we laugh,
when we cry,
when we fight.
It is empty,
only made full by
the breath and soul
of us, who exist in it.
It’s just a shell.
Concrete, metal, wood
It breathes not
and never will again
for we are gone.
It is cold,
never to be made warm
by our laughter,
by our tears,
by our anger.
It is empty,
never again filled by
the breath and soul
of us, who have gone.
