It rises in industrial splendor,
reduced to waste, just a blur on horizons it blots.
Ramshackle, mans labor, mars nature.
Here the sweat of mens brows mixed with soil, brought markets a product once needed.
Now derelict it sits in grey squalor, haunted by some long dead
Its cranium a nest for the birds, its belly a warm spot for field mice, amidst empty cartons discarded.
The weeds slowly choking its founations as nature reclaims its stilled carcass, and renders it mulch for the field.
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