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.
Written by a man inspired by the beauty of old, abandoned mines.
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.