The crumbling, earthen stones,
over which I clamber entrap the ghosts
of those who left before their time.
The cool, glassy tunnels through which I crawl
threaten to give, and bury my corpse
beneath the boulders and rubble.
The creaking catwalk to which I cling
sways ever slightly in the absence of wind,
teasing my toppling doom.
The mammoth steel drums
loom heads over mine, their rattling
and rumbling ceased decades ago.
The rotting apricot timbers
wedged into the endless darkness,
no longer support the tonnage of slabs
hoisted higher than my eyes will find.
The wrought-iron machinery
long stopped in time,
lies warped by the weight of gravity.
The soaring windows
spider-webbed and shattered,
litter the floor with their fractured bones.
And the walls and floors
and ceilings and doors
that once bustled with the liveliness of labor
lie silent.

Circumstances are hinges
Where poetry swings.
They can open a door
To a million linguistic expressions
Or they can shut them off
**** them in the sore of your throat
But never mute the meaning of.
Meaning lays in the very state
Of furtiveness and nakedness
From which words, inner or external
Emerge.
When mine merge with yours
It's beautiful
But when feelings do
As ore as they can get
There is not a word
Left to say.


-- Eleanor