Along the road, decrepit buildings stand,
where beasts that roared with industry lie dead,
with blackened walls that scar the ravaged land,
and wounds of scrawled graffiti bleeding red.
Among them stands a tall abandoned shell
of concrete, smoke scorched brick and rusted bolts,
with coal fuelled furnaces of bellowed hell,
and laboured groans that echo in the vaults.
The passers by who walk along that way,
point out a broken window in that place,
and then in lowered tones they often say,
they see the misted image of a face.
The pallid visage of a woman there,
secluded in her shattered glass abode,
with barren eyes of faded grey that stare,
worn down by desolation’s grinding load.