derby brown

by Kristopher

Posted to Poetry on 2003-01-10 14:31:00

DERBY BROWN

The sand travels these roads alone, with the quiet pat of my steps foreign
Dead machinery sits, gears grinning toothless smiles and rusty nails in piles giving eternal sermons on living destiny or rusting. I wonder; walking if I am rusting now.
On a stoop that is living a duel definition, sit broken pots, shattered by a vandal that doesn’t hide in night, but is night; nature.
Over head swift flows of clouds are surging in rivers through years, with the un-baited broken hooks of a lunar angler cast into the night only to leave disappointed in day. Years of regret sit in a fog that catches the sun and the sweat on my skin.
The wood houses smell dryer than the sand, and small white patches of leaden paint flake off with the rake of my hand over the broken down banister.
A rush of life fills me with pain as a sliver slithers its way into the pink flesh of my curious hand. The ancient wood is infused in the life of my moisture, soaking away a sliver of my soul and giving me pain for the trouble.
An old door frame stand sentient over the ruble that long ago replaced the walls, a skeleton of foundation with a tombstone gate hinting at the other side of time.
The low hills and flat alkali expanses are welded to the forever melting sky with a bond so strong it is holding the soul of this ghost town in.
History is hidden and physical here and I find myself searching for square nails in broken boards, using old metal like a crystal ball speaking to the spirits of Derby Brown and joining the for a moment in their own time.
It would seem I am the only ghost here, the world around me is unmoving and belonging to time and nature, I am fleeting and my memory will not linger.


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