Only the moon sees the smokestacks
from that angle;  high above
and at a slant,  soot covered bricks
in a circle broken by time
and industrial trends.

The whistles and engines complicit
in a conspiracy of rust; the hulking machines
frozen into stillness.  Eventually blowtorches
will reduce them to their lowest
common denominator.

The flame will flare brighter with each cut
until all has fallen and the fire consumes
itself; the man-made monster
just a memory, and the moon
still smiling high above.

 

 

Advertisements