by Brett Rutherford
An unpeopled metropolis,
stopped clocks —
abandoned cars, the doors
wind howling
through broken panes —
a siren, unattended,
howls for days
then fades to silence —
the open sky
criss-crossed by clouds,
but neither hawk nor crow
descend on downdrafts.
Two rivers meet, and what
new flow they form
is nameless now. Even
the compass points
have been forgotten,
map meaningless
with no one to read it.
The wheel of time grinds on.
All places are the same.
Concrete and granite,
steel and aluminum,
columns of marble
with their wreath'd tops
sacred to no one now.
They gasped their last,
those creators, users,
and inheritors.
Flames lick
the horizon, while
angry tides erode.
Who made all this?
Who knows?
What is this thing
that flaps and tatters
with frail white leaves,
glued up between covers?
Those black scribbles
must have meant something.
Did these lost beings
possess a language?
Is this where they put
their dreams and ideas?
Were they capable
of reason?
It seems not.
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