Once, the very height of splendor,
Wonder of the modern age,
Now forgotten, rack and ruin,
Wood and iron, rot and rust.
Once, tomorrow seemed like singing,
Hammers rang and voices sang:
Now the wind is keening softly,
Echoed in the swirls of dust.
Now, the day is dying ghostly,
Clouds above the fields, a frame —
Once, these tracks could reach tomorrow,
But tomorrow never
Came
[A very real place and a very real memory – Owen]
It was at least two lives ago.
We’d spend our nights out here –
It was always just the two of us;
One melodramatic hissy-fit artist,
And her.
I felt everything so keenly,
It was like I had no skin,
Only nerves on every inch of my body.
But I loved her with an eternal passion
That lasted that summer,
And sort of into the Fall.
Sitting here again,
Out at Payne Point,
I realize how well named it is –
For someone who had the misfortune
To have been there with me
