A silent city shoots through the night sky
bold as bastards cornered in the school yard
steel towers lit like candles reaching high.
Time had long since left those finger tips charred;
they desire fire once more before they die.
History and weather have road them hard
left them here to rot in the rust and ruin
the corpse of an industrial bruin.

In truth the bear will ne’er be heard again,
though I feel its voice call to me at night
some haunted tone that resonates with pain
coercing out of that void a subtle light
muted memory strikes in clouds of rain
gifting a pat to which I have no right.
Thus I am brought to worship the carcass;
my minds eye set to explore that darkness.

It smells like the cracked seal of cranberry jam
warring with damp leaves and water logged sticks
The air hits head on like a dislodged tram
rust sharp on cold breeze like broken bricks
Inner workings roil like wolf burdened lambs
the disheveled pipes turning tricks.
A shard of moonlight stumbles down on this
old magic reaching out from the abyss.