Ruins

There is something so beautiful about ruins. That something once stood erected here, there were people, livelihoods, joy, sorrow, and then at last, Rot once more. That at some point in time, this — was Home, this — was Peace and Love.

The stagnant scent of decaying wood, termites burrowing into broken doors which had witnessed cruelty, anguish, and injustice. Her scratch marks remain on the wooden door, a testament for the coming generations that here, there is no justice — there is no harmony nor peace. There is only the corrupt and the unforgiving. They dragged her out, screaming, holding onto the door as if it was her only saviour. The bloodied door frame stood strong as the final witness. Her fingernails left ruins that even the termites would remember, they would use those paths created by her, in her remembrance.

Standing quiet, right at the edge of injustice, the Door watched, witnessed the scars she left behind as her final breath of holding onto the one she Loved. And as the last ray of Hope was extinguished by the cruel hands of condemnation — She saw Truth and Lies separate. As for the door who abandoned and the termites who remembered — they were forever framed in the gallery of what was.

Ruins are beautiful, but also stern reminders of consequences, injustices, and the cruelty of this world. Ruins were Ruined for a reason.