Moss had clothed the shallow shelves and niches where incessent rain rest hidden from the sun, softening the harshly cast and cracking face of stone and iron. Beneath it, inorganic matter wept in trails etched by time and sunlight to put shadows on the edges where the water tends to run.
It was morning, and the eastern light diffused behind a vellum of un-patterned ashen weather, flushing starkly through the atmosphere and seeming brighter than it should’ve been. A consistently arrhythmic sheen to saturate the green and tawny yellow. A quiet sort of lucid emanation without origin or focus, ambiguously spread across the surfaces and cavities, reducing shadows to an imperceptible departure from the boney white and eggy grey. Yet even in the over-bright efluxion of the waning dawn, the windows still were black.
As if the glass and led were pupils looking outward at me walking by, discerning and severe and always watching, an instrument of vision oddly cognizant and cryptically attentive to the fleeting consciousness I occupy.
To feel the gaze of something larger and the closeness of the years it’s witnessed, to wonder at the size that I can’t see beyond it’s peaks and spires and at the poetry in stone that’s since been washed from it’s reliefs.
And I should crumble underneath the weight of this observing me. I should wilt away and shrink, a passing instant burst and wasted as the aperture is shut. I should evaporate unnoticed in a moment, just a shadow in the pores beneath the moss the morning grows.