The shed is plain!
It is yellow and hollow.
Yellow fades more slowly than hope.
Handprints on old cracked concrete.
To signify ghosts live inside.
My brave father indeed.
The railway runs on through.
Beside not toward nor away.
T'is neither fate nor afterlife, it just is.
They stand where men stood.
Ghosts of men occupy, lost identities.
Quite stationary yet obsessed with direction.
Still as if to ponder but no thought emits.
Just snail pace withheld emotion.
Banked energy unspent in living.
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