Death Of Intent

By Ian MacLean

Bloated.

Rotting.

Festering.

Littering the floor

Before ominous doors

long locked.

Keys, 

long lost in the sands of time.

This great hall

Sang once of courage, of hope.

A chapel bathed in the light

Of love, 

of dreams.

Now dismal, 

silent.

A tomb of intent long dead 

‘neath a mountain of fears

By Ian MacLean