Ruins Of Chamberholme Poem by B. Sven Telander

A dark flock of hideous and beautiful birds, winged to flight from nesting in an ancient forest; plunging into the blanket of night, a veil woven from death and darkness, shrouding all the lost children of wind- descending with shrieks as their songs, over the majestic decay of the ruins of Chamberholme Manor.
Debris scuttled the length and width of the ancient grand concourse in a gravelly whispering random dance across fractured marble and obsidian tile. Sudden rushes of screeching winds, howling in praise of destruction, sent dust, leaves, and twigs tumbling out from overgrown lawn and dead gardens along the pathways of the converging colonnades, the few that had not collapsed, and still spoked toward the bruised and crumbling sprawl of the mansion once called Chamberholme’s Grace. Whirling eddies of airborne detritus now ruled these forgotten paths of an older time.
It was into this set-piece I found myself, disbelieving the sights that met my eyes, the lonely bleak arias of air and bird that haunted my ears, the complex scents and scenes of disintegration that tangled my senses, this tragedy that lay before me.
I was far too destroyed to even cry.