Gentle voices breeze lost through the air.

Wild masterpieces grow tall and ungroomed;

Conquering the vacant playland.

Visions of small hands with large connecting;

Like vines branching out and entangling.

The walls slowly shredding to nothing;

as if it were bark on a tree.

Deteriorating... Extremely... Slowly...

Indents of fingerprints left along the walls.

Gracefully they glide;

Like an artists graceful strokes of paint.

They crumble in patches;

Stripped from the walls.

Gates rising from the ground;

as if they were preventing the depreived from entering.

Sweet laughter lost in the night.

A structure lost for words;

and silent screams of escapism.

The ruins remain to decay,

Empowered by destruction, evanescent.

What was once septiternal becomes ephmeral.

Becomes a memory that drifts;

Much like the painters strokes.