| Urban Decay
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| | Who were you in life?
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| Slowly descending
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| | Old Church
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| The spiral staircase
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| | I. Cathedral.
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| Into urban decay
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| | I go back in time as I brush webs of dust
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| On this night long journey -
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| | From the stained glass window,
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| Preceded by flashlight
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| | Wondering what secrets this
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| And followed by the full moon,
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| | Old church buried with its dead.
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| Whose eyes hold us all in
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| | II. Esoteric.
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| His view as the street light
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| | As stained as memory,
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| Flickers in and out in orange shades.
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| | This old window yet reflects light
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| Spirit of the Past
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| | Like the sermons once held
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| The spirit of the past
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| | In the holy hall.
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| Lives in
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| | Farewell Party (Leaving the Old Church)
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| The whispers of the wind and
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| | The ravens on the roof
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| The hoot of the hoary owl,
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| | Stand guard like gargoyles -
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| Which echoes sadly evermore
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| | These grim feathered ghouls
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| Against the lonely trees -
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| | Perch atop the once proud passages
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| Who for days uncounted
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| | That they now pretend to own,
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| Have seen the endless journeys of men
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| | And sing a sad a cappella
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| Come to and end beneath them -
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| | In mockery of memory.
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| This final respite
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| | To End a Journey
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| Marked by names and dates
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| | I leave as the morning light
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| On lonely tombs.
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| | Lifts the late night's velvet veil
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| Ghost Hunting
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| | And the moon bids farewell
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| There is a ghost in the shell
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| | To the starry sky,
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| Of every old place -
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| | Wondering if warning signs
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| Whether the unclaimed metal skeleton
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| | Will be like hieroglyphs
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| Of an abandoned steel mill,
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| | To a future age.
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| Or the spirit that lingers
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| | Into the Light
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| On the grounds of a historic graveyard.
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| | Walking at the crack of dawn on
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| These ancient places carry
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| | This early morn,
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| The immortal remnants
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| | Through fresh cut grass
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| Of old civilization.
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| | And beside foggy fields,
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| Exploring them to
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| | My shoes soaked with dew -
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| Examine their secrets
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| | I stop to take a drink
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| Like an urban archaeologist -
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| | And pause to think:
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| Chasing down the answers
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| | This simple heaven's
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| To urban legends
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| | Greater'n
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| And ghost stories -
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| | That urban hell.
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| Simply to know
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| | Atalaya
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| What came before.
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| | Dark watch tower
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| Abandoned Factory
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| | Overlooking the lonely beach
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| Once full of life,
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| | Built without blueprint -
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| This old building;
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| | Summer home sculpted
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| With memories locked away
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| | From brick and mortar,
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| Under layers of dust.
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| | Its plans first and solely sketched
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| Cigarette butts and broken beer bottles
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| | In the dreams of a genius and poet.
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| Litter the lonely lot.
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| | Ordered chaos - artistic anarchy;
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| Once vital and active
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| | The sculpture room seems to
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| In the world of mortal men,
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| | Summon the spirit
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| Now immortal in its skeletal frame -
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| | Of the poet's late wife -
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| The ghost in the shell of the
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| | As if the ghost
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| Abandoned factory
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| | Of the lady sculptor
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| Speaks secrets of long misused tools,
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| | Haunts the mossy halls
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| Broken cinder blocks,
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| | Just to finish her last work.
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| And locked away rooms -
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| | Manifest Destiny
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| Modern ruins and electric tombs
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| | How wild was the west?
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| Long left behind
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| | How true rang the gold,
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| On this hidden highway.
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| | That men sought and killed
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| And evermore in urban legend.
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| | For it?
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| Stomping Ground
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| | How mighty the steed,
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| Traversing the rural fringes
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| | And how much mightier
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| Of urban reality,
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| | The man who rode it
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| Haunting the spirits
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| | And held the law on his hip?
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| With lamps and curious minds.
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| | How long the roads of those days?
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| Marble City
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| | How deep the secrets?
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| I know when you were born and died,
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| | Would the spirits of
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| But I want to see beyond the moss
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| | Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp
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| On your gravestone.
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| | Speak to us in the old saloon?
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