This strange glyph,
some artist’s desperate incantation,
attempts to bridge the gaps
of these quietly eroding walls,

but even art cannot redeem
this blighted old mill
that once devoured the giant
firs guarding virgin shores,

these strange letters can do
no more than celebrate
the beginning
of an end,

demarcate a time
when unable to restore,
even art seems to
deface our world.

When all else crumbles
and industry lays waste
our land,
what more can

one expect of art
than to record
the slow coming on
of that final dissolution?