McDone stood tall in centre
No others could prevail
As they sulked in its shadows
Along its street grew misty trees
Dried out, bare branched, and dead.
Like the pale blades of grass below
Cracked and crooked concrete steps
Leading to the rusty, wood door.
Inside held a musty, cold air, soaking
Into the elegant, dusty chairs of velvet
All faced the rotting stage
That once captured much applause.
Upon the stage, dust has cluttered
These bunnies not hop, just lie
Covering much more than is visible
Among the clutter of forgotten things
Unpaired shoes, faded clothes, assorted hates,
And theatre masks lack all color.
Above, stygian, a small room is hidden
Filled with longheld secrets in disguise
Not a single speck of aging within
Fresh, white documents upon the desk
While the theatre may be asleep
Surely, this room was not.
Many words said inside its' walls
New beginnings and success
Failure, revenge, and loneliness
Truth be told, never in so long
With all wrong there is no write
Leaving only a poet and his pen.
Assignment: Three objects in room, combined into poem
Objects: Pen, trees, theatre masks