Pitch-black, Blood-red, Drab-grey


it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Though it once divided the highway
And bent the unyielding rail
This falling down factory still may
Not yet crumble before they fail
Songs of glass houses and stones
In neglect even solid brick groans
Its iron bars rust, its timbers grow stale
It is not what anyone admittedly owns
It is opaque and cuts the earth deep
But fear of the breath of frost
With agitation they must yet keep
Stones away at every cost
I have seen more than one posted bill
Declaring in letters, for good or for ill
That its cause is done, its wars are lost
I have now certainly read my fill
What is it then - a metal detailing plant
An old cathedral, a moldering clubroom
A system grown old of ritual and cant
A riot of stones may too soon presume
But the revolutions already had their day
Like demons drive them at last away
All is retrofitted, we forget too soon --
Pitch-black, blood-red, drab-grey.

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