When The Factories Closed

When the factories closed,

All the old, broken rows

Of untenanted houses infested by ghosts,

Like ripped stitches from dry crumbling spines of old tomes,

Severed loose, languished chapters to rot on their own.

All the yards grown astray,

Weeds where laughter once played,

Now sound nursery rhyming of rust and decay,

Each bare table disgraced, fails to form or convey,

Any semblance of blessings, where once god was praised.

As the past years collapse, falling in on themselves,

Leaving dwelling's dead shells, like an unburied corpse,

Do they sing a death rattle- a land's waning health?

And If so, where is mourning, where is our remorse?

When the factories closed,

Acquiescing, we chose,

To accept the misfortunes,  to misdirect woes,

To let empty a household of all of it's souls.

What we let others loose, we ourselves come to own.