Life is vast Spreading across the fields Of the old world Entwining the smells of the country into one. Life sprouts as forests of green And clings to the remnants of humanity Still lingering in the abandoned cities. Even though the old world has been dead for years, It can be felt in the earth beneath one’s feet in the north, In the air when it is inhaled in the south. Images of its past magnificence ghost one’s vision And disappear in the blink of an eye. Magic seeps from nature’s roots, Invigorating history, And projecting reflections Of when civilization ruled nature. Though abandoned The old world still continues to thrive Filling the emptiness with trees and weeds, Plants and wildlife Chords of jazz descent still linger in the halls Of what was once called Lawndale Theatre Forming melodies of old That perform for the hills in Illinois. Creations of past can be found scattered across the land: Lines of automobiles go on for miles Weeds interwoven in their machinery, A bicycle towers above head view Embedded within a sequoia, A spiral staircase on Pismo Beach rusts As it stands tall on the coast Exposed to its neighbor the sea. Life flourishes in this world. Sounds of children’s laughter echo in the tree houses Buried deep within the woods of Brooksville. New Bedford is home to a bundle of souls That often fill the empty halls of the Orpheum. Rows upon rows of faded jade seats Await the mass of wailing strings, The memory of an orchestra Overflowing the auditorium And filling the decaying streets. During the day silhouettes of human shape Are shadowed onto walls underneath the earth In a solemn subway stop off Lexington Avenue. Conversations travel in the breeze begging to be heard Even though the ruined City Hall Loop Has long been disserted. Clocks chime, tick tucking a melodic rhythm Dead center in Michigan Central Station As if past citizens of Detroit are still awaiting Their destinations just the same. And then it is gone. In a single glance. Erased like a forgotten memory. Fading like an old dream. The magic seeping back into the roots. The old world falling back into its quiet, broken reality. Yet ghosts still linger in the land. Their spirits cling to the walls of every Terrible towering block of cement, Their screams echoing in the Desolate pastures of lackluster promises. The forest has returned to its original state, A horrible dystopian image to the fearful nomads, But a beautiful spectacle to the soulful wanderers. The spirit of humanity desperately leaves Its imprint on the old world As if to personify the memories of those Who fought to call this world home? This is how the old world continues to exist Even if it is lost to history. But it is not lost. No, it is merely waiting. Waiting for someone to find it And call it home once again. ***