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Outside Words Nov 2019
I do not wish
To leave this place
Lock me not
Inside your cage

And busy roads
Foul my air
And wither trees
Hanging smoke
And Gray skies
For all to see

If I could
I would stay
Where I was born
Where I was raised
Home among the trees
The forests and leaves

I want to connect
With wind's caress
On face and on chest
From a high towered nest
As I look to the west
Lost in my books
Free from your stress

I will not leave
For I cannot sustain
This synthetic life
And needless pain
With a tranquil smile
I will gently diminish
Like Autumn's breath
At home I'll rest

Alessander Jun 2015
It’s like some beast
whose roar startles
drowsy landscapes  
from a mechanical planet
where veins leak oil
where organs deoxidize
where bones lay scattered
unburied like discarded rods
homes are garages
churches are factories
cemeteries are junkyards
where all organisms operate
toward a singular optimum imperative:

Skylar May 2015
Around my white vinyl house
Is scattered an assortment of mills:
Motley brick bones
With salted ****** cement cartilage
And cracked, uninhabited eyes
Staring down apathy and progress.

Pillars that once asphyxiated the sky
With black and grey
Now sigh dust into the breeze;
The dust of men and machines
Long-silent and long-still.

Poisonous paint peels off of memories
As cancerous flakes lazily snow from the ceiling.
Snake skins of creeping ruddy corrosion climb pistons
And embrace wheels.

Vines strangle arteries and musty furniture.
Trees breach the foundation
And claw open the rotted eaves,
Eager to drink the sticky August heat.

A crow grips a window-frame
    Which has long outlived its purpose
And casts a numb eye over her domain.

A breath of moisture in the air:
A nor'easter approaches.
Nick Strong Apr 2015
There, amongst the northern skies,
Tears driven by ghostly squalls to
Fall on the blackened, bleak rooftops
Of this northern town, forgotten.
Left to a grey Victorian rot
Decaying factory ceilings collapsing on,
Litter strewn floors, newspapers decompose
With triumphs from yester year
Industrial dust stained brickwork
Grimy reminder, of the grim past
Haunted dim gaslight probing the fog
Days, nights only separated by murky light
A ghostly silence, hangs like a grimy fog
Cloaking lost sounds of dull beating on metal,
Boots tramping over cobbled stones,
The sounds of clocking on, clocking off, no more
An image of a dying or dead industrial northern town

— The End —