The Spirit


United States
44° 49' 48.8928" N, 106° 53' 55.1112" W

The Spirit churns
Like the grinding of cogs
The breath of the Spirit
Is the blackest of fogs

It glides through the sky
It makes not sound
But for the chortle of rich men
No other voice can be found

Spiraling it goes down
It blankets those eyes
It fills their red throats
Silences their cries

The Spirit moves on
Stops for no pause
Does not look behind
Sees not what it's caused

Our faces covered in soot, we cannot see
Our lungs filled with tar, we cannot breath
Yet, we march with the Spirit
So that the Past may leave


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