Life is vast
Spreading across the fields
Of the old world
Entwining the smells of the country into one.
Life sprouts as forests of green
And clings to the remnants of humanity
Still lingering in the abandoned cities.
Even though the old world has been dead for years,
It can be felt in the earth beneath one’s feet in the north,
In the air when it is inhaled in the south.
Images of its past magnificence ghost one’s vision
And disappear in the blink of an eye.
Magic seeps from nature’s roots,
Invigorating history,
And projecting reflections
Of when civilization ruled nature.
Though abandoned
The old world still continues to thrive
Filling the emptiness with trees and weeds,
Plants and wildlife
Chords of jazz descent still linger in the halls
Of what was once called Lawndale Theatre
Forming melodies of old
That perform for the hills in Illinois.
Creations of past can be found scattered across the land:
Lines of automobiles go on for miles
Weeds interwoven in their machinery,
A bicycle towers above head view
Embedded within a sequoia,
A spiral staircase on Pismo Beach rusts
As it stands tall on the coast
Exposed to its neighbor the sea.
Life flourishes in this world.
Sounds of children’s laughter echo in the tree houses
Buried deep within the woods of Brooksville.
New Bedford is home to a bundle of souls
That often fill the empty halls of the Orpheum.
Rows upon rows of faded jade seats
Await the mass of wailing strings,
The memory of an orchestra
Overflowing the auditorium
And filling the decaying streets.
During the day silhouettes of human shape
Are shadowed onto walls underneath the earth
In a solemn subway stop off Lexington Avenue.
Conversations travel in the breeze begging to be heard
Even though the ruined City Hall Loop
Has long been disserted.
Clocks chime, tick tucking a melodic rhythm
Dead center in Michigan Central Station
As if past citizens of Detroit are still awaiting
Their destinations just the same.
And then it is gone.
In a single glance.
Erased like a forgotten memory.
Fading like an old dream.
The magic seeping back into the roots.
The old world falling back into its quiet, broken reality.
Yet ghosts still linger in the land.
Their spirits cling to the walls of every
Terrible towering block of cement,
Their screams echoing in the
Desolate pastures of lackluster promises.
The forest has returned to its original state,
A horrible dystopian image to the fearful nomads,
But a beautiful spectacle to the soulful wanderers.
The spirit of humanity desperately leaves
Its imprint on the old world
As if to personify the memories of those
Who fought to call this world home?
This is how the old world continues to exist
Even if it is lost to history.
But it is not lost.
No, it is merely waiting.
Waiting for someone to find it
And call it home once again.
***