The wide blue sky sees smokestacks
at an unobstructed slant, over the top
and at an angle; those soot covered bricks
in a circle broken by time
and industrial trends.

The whistles and engines complicit
in a conspiracy of rusted silence;
the hulking machines frozen into stillness.
Eventually blowtorches will reduce them
to their lowest common denominator.

The flame will flare brighter with each cut,
until all has fallen and the fire consumes
itself; that man-made monster
no more than memory, and the moon
still smiling above.

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