Langtry, Poems
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On Things Forgotten


Recoiled skies pass in reckless abandon

The wind blows through the windows,

Prickly pear and other thorny things sprouting limbs

And creeping up the walls of this old sheriff’s office

Remain the only living occupants.


If walls could talk, they mightn’t choose to speak…

We leave things hanging on hall trees,

And mounted above mantles

Small reminders that there was life inside at

Some point.


But the bones and blood

Of these buildings runs cold,

Until there is nothing but the

Forlorn faith of somber cries

From voices long underground.


Ghost towns and old railyards mark the skin of

This heartland,

Long bleached from the sun and

Rusted away from unfair weather.


It’s a wonder what this place must’ve been

Before time turned executioner,

Before people picked up their shadows

And blew away like rain-flit flames

Struggling for a life that is no longer theirs.


Now the frames wilt

And weather away in rural decay,

Things that once housed, fed, and warmed

Now sink back into deformed Earth.


Laughes do not echo off the walls,

The beams do not support evidence of anything

But a waylaid wandering.

The boarded windows hold no fingerprints.


But yet, these places perch on the roadside like

A cemetery below intrepid skies

Silent reminders

Of the inevitable obsolete.

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