Only the moon sees the smokestacks
from that slant, high above and at an angle,
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 high above.




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