When They Speak, I Realize I’m Empty

I remember the Victorian homes
huge and ghastly;
broken glassed
doors akimbo
grass through the floorboards.
Teenagers played in them;
too thoughtful to vandalize,
or was it reverence?
Acting as adults
away from judging eyes
working through the fear of becoming
and the loss of the lives they have known.
Once proud symbols of affluence
staged plays of the “rabble” (I’m sure),
immature and most common,
who would only have them.
I am this.
I am worn and weathered
abandoned except as a playground for the lost.
They only want the truth of it,
spoken in passion and extremes.
(I cannot give it, only walls
to keep out those who have forgotten
that feeling of anxiety, loss, and there are no words.)
Adults call me condemned
and I stand because no one has cared to tear me down.