Industrial ruins haunt both sides of the Hudson River.
Tall chimneys mark them from a distance.
On this winter morning no one is there but me.
Walls stand as tombstones.
They act as grafitti billboards
For my eyes only.
Black is our safe shadow.
Scream into her earth and cry.
Protect with unconditional love.
Hold your echo mist important to death.
I dare any dead mouth to test my ethics.
Poetry is the only magic left in this desolate world.
Like red hands on a cave wall in Sulawesi.
Or Legong dancers in Ubud.
Modern roads offer no enchantment.
Where are the hobos?
Only in books and photos.
And then in poetry.
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in
They roam the fields and roam the sea
There’s a race that can’t stay still
And they climb the mountain crest
So they break the heart of kith and kin
For theirs s the curse of the gypsy blood
And roam the world at will
And they don’t know how to rest.
Robert Service, Poet.
I know both the road and poetry.
Anyone who loves magic does.