Wooden Shell

With wooden shell
and hollow centre
it inches forward by night.
Stripped of flesh
now running lighter,
knowing nothing
save empty and abandon.

The space inside,
Once beating,
Once feeling.
Lies dormant,
A wasteland deep within.

Eyes of glass look on
scrub ground, reeling
from footprint marked out clearly.
Movement echoes
through air of stillness,
never broken by sound.
The doors around
lie closed and battered
from times past and future feared.
In silent standoff
stand wood and walls
neither bending to the task
to join together
fixed and changing.
One hollow.
One within.

The time will pass
without word or action,
each waiting for the one,
when time will change
the wall of silence,
the knowing disregard.

The wood will perish.
The walls will crumble.
Time wears down what will.
Stand apart
And all alone
They all become the same.