Something so forlorn is an abandoned toy;
Its usefulness outlived, the user has moved on,
Its presence an embarrassment, its purpose long gone,
An unwelcome reminder of still-remembered joy.
Something so forlorn is an abandoned home,
Its neatness more contrived than brought about by care,
And no-one to disturb the order that is there
Or cherish imperfections in brick, in glass, in stone.
Something so forlorn is an abandoned dream
That whimpers in its corner, cowed, yet still as constant
As when it shone with newness and with promise incandescent.
That promise, unfulfilled, refusing to be silenced,
Disowned and long-abandoned to a safe and fitting distance
From where sound hollow echoes of its unrelenting scream.
First published in Reach