There’s something about dilapidated buildings,
the forgotten inhabitants and era.
The cracks spreading its roots like branches.
Tales of lost time, traditions and terra.
What grandeur it must have possessed?
Who lived within those red brick walls?
Just huge portraits are all that’s left.
No defense works when tragedy befalls.
Those who trudged on the long corridors,
carrying the burden of power or sin.
The women of the Manor veiled from the world,
peeping through the blinds- hiding their chagrin.
The Red Manor stands tall- its expanse mum.
Haunted by forgotten tales and tourist humdrum.
Quietly witnessing the passage of time.
Bearing the remnants of a beauty sublime.