An old sign hangs disheveled off the brick wall
broken neon tubes that spell out, “Siren’s Call”
one of two steel bars still screaming, “please, don’t fall!”

The bricks bleed rust down the side of the building
as if more than mortar was used for their melding
mineral substrate to match the signs welding.

The doors below rot in a weak wooden frame
years of struggle have warped them in knotted shame
discarded pallets no one wants to claim.

Once there were souls that lived behind those old doors
warm embers to subdue the cold bricked in core
but there is no life in that place anymore.

Propped on failing beams, it looms over the street
scouring at all the faces it might meet,
those lost vagabonds cast astray at its feet.

Daylight overwhelms the chaotic city
the sun, arousing beauty from the gritty,
would never touch those bricks, though moved by pity.

They found comfort only in the nights embrace
the moon and the stars having a softer face,
evening found this menace to be a sad place.

In the darkness those hidden lights would turn on
some stammered prophecy of the coming dawn
as if ashamed that its life had long since gone.