Hum of turbines
unsettles sleep.
A sidewalk unwinds
outside the factory.
It is not music or scenery,
merely heads touching
cold machinery.
The furnace still burns.
Black motes rise
from ashen mouths
To assemble dark lines
consuming word and deed.
1 comment:
Bonbon, This transcends the physical loss into other spheres now empty of life ... loss of comforts, daily pulse, hubbub of energy and a township's history. I witnessed the phantom factory workings. Bey
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