My potters field by M.L. Fenton

Rotted Wood

My potters field

I’m alone in in my childhood

of desolution- as I walk through my potters field Of Grand oblisiks and mass- unmarked graves.

This whole town is a dusty shoebox relic-

a Chernobyl a Pompeii, frozen in the very moment

The steel stopped flowing.
I was there when it faltered- I saw the collapse

To this very day, the dust still hangs heavy in the air, never settling.

My face in shadow my shoulders hunched My pack heavy-

All I have now is;

crumbling insulbrick and rotting wood.

I’m a refugee in my own town.

M.L. Fenton is a 45 year old aspiring poet. Currently lives and works in the western Pennsylvania area as a bus driver. She grew by up in the Monongahela river valley during the decline of the steel industry and subsequent deterioration of the surrounding neighborhoods, which serves as inspiration for her poetry.

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