The Highway

 The skeleton of a building remains,

Windows like eye sockets are stripped of glass.

Beside this graveyard operate the trains,

Surrounded by graffiti as they pass,

Along the ruins, along this ghost town,

The blast of fumes exhaled from the highway,

Exhausted, roads are beaten and run down,

Old, war horse bridges, now are giving way.

Pockets, we pass, left of a rural wood,

Are forsaken, tree branches wave down cars.

I hear a cry where once the mighty stood,

Then, solemn, and covered with brighter stars.