Custodian
Those soldiers of old, sepia
despite the light,
armed with hammer and sickle.
Mechanical creatures, all
rickety and roaring.
The pounding of smoke rising.
The graveyard of wood, green
seas of sustain.
Mists on the morning hang idly
Endlessly waving, as if
to say hello or farewell.
Cawing, a kind calling, for them.
-J.A. Stump
January 22, 2012
