Too Much Ruin

There is still a sort of dignity in the factory walls.
Made of marble, they gleam in the afternoon sun,
windows dark and regular, pock the light.

If you do not mind the walk through briars
you can circle the place, walking the wire fence
until you find the gap others before you have made

and go in.

Close up, it is a wreck. Ceilings collapsed.
Floor rotted. The last of the factory equipment rusted.
Birds and furtive animals have made this place their home,
and they rustle angrily as you enter,
fleeing for the moment, but not in panic.

They have been here before, with invaders
coming in, but only for the day, a few hours
of curiosity before they leave.
There is too much ruin here to stay.

About this poem

About old buildings (The picture is an old factory in nearby Shushan, NY), but also about broken people and the people who poke into our lives, rarely staying when they see the mess. Here’s a shout-out to the ones who do stay, unafraid of the mess, able to see the beauty. Because there is always beauty.

Tom