Setting plaster

The weather worn notice states, ‘No entry’

Faded, mossy, tinged with green.

I push the gate and it squeals, birds in nearby trees fly out.

Ahead lies a white shed.

Over time a crack has appeared, a faultline in the fabric of the building.

Ruptured, severed, broken

Cut off from the world outside.

Its history filed away in a memory long forgotten.

I run my hands over the walls. Slightly slimy and damp.

A hundred secrets hidden behind, So many conversations heard.

The plaster crumbles away in my hand leaving a chalky residue.

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