[one_half]A lonely salvage yard
The rusted fence, high and silent
Tipped with broken barbed wire
Keeping out no one in particular
Gnarled hollow trees, dried branches,
Rotting wood and leaves beneath
Guarding the entrance
From no one in particular
Gate held fast by a corroded padlock
An easy mark, if anyone cared
Classic cars sit idly rotting away
Ancient wheels mired in hardened dirt
Pathways weave between the chaos
Carved and furrowed from the wind
A final forgotten resting place
Plastic pail, broken glass, trash
Shattered dreams on display
Passerby’s simply pass by
No thought of what’s inside
History confined in this cage
A time capsule without an open by date
Heaping mounds of deterioration
The piles resemble granite ridges
Shades of rust, sand, and more rust
A tapestry of mottled lines
An eerie canvas of detritus
Weather the only influence
Scorching heat and freezing nights
Rainstorms, hailstorms, windstorms
Far too many to count
Paints faded, vinyl gone brittle
Whole reduced to parts
A mystery of what’s beneath
Junkyard archeology
Self-taught from a salvage lot
Chrome scraps glint at midday
Sending their signal to no one
Broken chairs, a tireless trike
Hubcap piles, frame of a bike
An awning hung lazily from a bent rod
Faded oil sign with bullet hole patterns
Remains of a campfire from long ago
Broken bottles and a cinder block seat
Construction debris piled haphazardly
Now homes for the homeless
Barrels, paint cans, axels and gears
Waiting in piles for nothing at all
A useless heavy car crusher
Waiting for no one in particular
Endless stacks of tires
Flattened piles nearby
Endangered treasures disintegrating
A lazy yard dog trots by
Staring through the chain link
Forgetting the broken lamps,
The pipes, and worn furniture
that which could be
From that which once was[/one_half]
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