Cracked plaster ceiling be-speckled with stars,

Patched armchairs unpatched, stained carpets once new,

Lots cleared of a soul, once brimming with cars,

Screens that showed lives never lived but by few.

Hall that tied strangers together in tears,

Styx, your doors crossed meant a voyage of dreams.

Here lovers and friends disposed of their fears,

Darkness just traded one’s troubles for screams.

Color and glory is broken and blank,

Mold and mildew once popcorn and butter,

Moth-eaten curtains lie unused and lank,

Rolls of dead films decay in the clutter.

What has become of the fountain of hope?

Fantasy hung itself fast by a rope.