The IndustryA Poem by Mr. MisanthropeThe Industrial Fields lie over yonder.
Let's climb up that last stretch of green hill And then we see it! Towers of cold metal, belching hot gas. Towers and towers upon metal and brick And sad men, the workers, like zombies, dull. Saw a powder blue car today Parked by a dry cleaner's; It was called Old Lady. I think it was mocking me. No one loves things that aren't real, Or things that can not give them satisfaction, Like the lost child wandering through industrial Fields, After a long, lonely war; no food, no love. The mother and the father are gone, both Gone, But the mechanics stay there, to be Consumed by Apocalyptic fires -- Fires and flames, Flames and crazy people, and towers of Metal, in the industrial fields. The boy holds a hope. A little boy, with no loved ones, Wearing an old school uniform - it was Blasted away with the bombs. Are the comets scary? Or the result? No more soft, blue eyes. No more alpha scent. The blue is sick and scraped away with the Fantasy of robots, unfeeling. The boy falls asleep in the powder blue; He falls asleep in the powder blue. They are all gone; only fantasies remain. In the smoke and the soot and the gears and gravel And Spirits searching for Purgatory. © 2014 Mr. MisanthropeReviews
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Added on February 12, 2011Last Updated on August 11, 2014 Author
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