In this poem, my 13th trisect, segment one depicts steel. Segment two depicts the skyscraper, in which steel is the most essential component. And segment three depicts the effects of modern industry upon earth and humanity, which includes mining for and smelting steel and the development and movement of all those resources that lead to the creation and maintenance of the skyscraper.
Alchemy
Ore
Forged by myriad million years of light,
cast against eternities of night,
elemental embers collect amid the void,
pooled in glowing clouds of dust and rock.
Particles accrete through time and motion,
condensed to monumental orbs of molten
crystal moods, amassing alloys mid the darkness,
cooled to form a rind of raw potential.
Fertile soils rise from ancient stone,
animating shapes of wood and bone.
Nimble hands evolve and grope the ground for clues,
scratching for a means to reach the sky.
Fires smelt a future from deposits
quarried from a realm of veins and pockets,
charged into converters from out the depths of reason,
hatching alloys cast as new potential.
Corpse
They rise as if from out the earth, a maze
of beams and columns stretched against the haze,
looming like the relic frames of ancient beasts,
massive specters moaning on the wind.
Reflections slowly seal each giant carcass,
body bags of alloys mined from darkness
closed around the ribs of tall decaying monsters,
ghastly shadows cast across the landscape.
They cantilever labyrinths of gloom
hard against an ever present brume,
where wander human wraiths yet bound to living breath,
faces filled to silence with dismay.
Like mausoleums raised to mark the open
graves where hopes lie wasting in corrosion,
great facades reflect with every sunset whisper
traces of the hollowness within them.
Course
Canyons wrought from concrete steel and glass
soar above an ever seething mass,
heads and fenders tossed within a frantic flood
swelled from centuries of strong desire.
Arteries of lava, veins of phosphor
circulate through fields of psychic squalor,
where great malignant tumors feed upon the current,
welled from out the heart of mass confusion.
Discolored patches stretch and fade from view—
membranes taking on a sickly hue—
an ever growing quilt expanding abstract themes
flung beyond the grasp of human thought.
Filaments of culture weave a madness
shimmered from the dark side of a canvas
suspended deep in silence against abysmal backdrops
clung forever to the soul’s awareness.
The prosody is pretty complex. If you’re curious about it let me know and I’ll respond with an explanation.