Through time stood this imagery of power:
steadfast in the glory of ages gone by,
now forgotten, abandoned by all memory
concealed in the surrounding fog.
Some stones toppled,
some edges crumbled,
some windows cracked,
the bells fallen,
the moat run dry,
the throne empty.
Alluring, the mysteries of its past.
Tempting, the passages hidden beneath.
Curious, the adventures of its inhabitants.
Who might have built such simple magnificence?
Why in this dark and ominous forest?
Is solitude the purpose of its existence?
Rough stone against the soft, grey sky,
Does your past ring with laughter, or a cry?