The Land of the Lost.

There is a land somewhere, an in-between land. Halfway between hell and purgatory, where dwell the hopes lost forever.
It is a grey land, all smoke and echoes. Dust and ash, swirling about.
The sound creeps up on you. It starts off slowly, softly. A buzz in the background, rising in volume,rising in intensity. And it builds and builds till its reaches its crescendo, a haunting, depressing, but oddly beautiful medley of the prayers of the damned; the final, fervent whispers of souls long gone. The broken, lisped melodies of children who were robbed of life too soon, the ballads of couples who twirl about,locked in an embrace even Death could not break. The hearty tunes that once rang out loud and clear from ships sailing proudly along, mingling into the sounds of the crashing water that overcame it all. The pianos, cellos,guitars, violins that had to be forsaken for their myriad reasons, now played by ghostly fingers; love rediscovered, reunited.
Here lie the books, poems that never were published. The tunes that never found a producer to share them to the world. All the works that were destroyed in hurt and anger because of the rejection, the constant, repeated rejection. Classics that never had the chance to be.
Here are the love letters forsaken, the roses rejected, the rings turned down. Bouquets of flowers,bruised and rotting,their scent fading into the air. The wedding gowns that never saw the light of day, the ones ruined and torn. The letters undelivered,filled with love and longing for home and family and the familiar touch of the ones held dearest. The flowers left on the graves of people long forgotten, people who have blent into the dust from whence they rose. And broken promises, vows desecrated, they dot the landscape in ever-growing numbers.
Here roam the ones disillusioned and broken, who have lost hope that they will ever see the light at the end of the tunnel. The criminal walking to the gallows. The lone survivor of a massacre. The ones who live in an eternal nightmare. The desolate desperation of the abandoned. The tortured minds of the perennially misunderstood, eternally mocked. The bitter defeat of the vanquished. The broken hearts that never quite healed and pieced back together, that never quite stopped bleeding dry.
Where dreams, once rosy and bursting with light and colour, are now grey, dull things, ragged and worn through the wringer of disillusionment. Where there is no more laughter or happiness, just tears and sorrow and overwhelming despair. Where the mocking echoes of dreams you never got a chance to fulfill reverberate through your very bones.
Seeing this place, it is hard to believe that Hope still remains when everything else has left, still remains fluttering in her jar.