Prologue.

A man sitting at a table,

Was plunking away at a telegraph,

Sending messages to places all over the country,

His duty was critical,

Any mistakes could be fatal in wartime.

Suddenly sirens began to blare,

Their shrill cries ringing in the man’s ears.

“It’s time to go” he said to himself.

As he stood up,

He looked around for one last time,

And then

The world turned white,

And all senses turned to ash.

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Abandoned.

In an abandoned building,

In a dark dusty corner,

In shambles,

Lies the Moldy Telegraph

The metal framework rusted and charred,

Its miniature keys scattered across the floor,

What was once a brilliant onyx is now,

A dull apathetic grey.

The metal contraption,

Is now home to the occasional nomadic rodent.

They take shelter for a time,

Bringing their meals to gobble up,

And pass out in a blanket woven of wires,

But after a time,

They leave its desolate benches.

Abandoned again.

If I were that Moldy Telegraph,

Perhaps I would fade away,

Away from living memory,

Into the pitch black shadows.