The finely-dressed men,

Illuminated by gaslight.

The high-ranking women,

Whose heels tap against the stone.

The flickering flames,

That dwindle,

With every passing year,

Ever smaller.

The horses,

That seem,

To grow rarer,

Every month.


By lifeless machines,

That prey upon,

Foul liquids.

The sky,

Once clear,

Now filled with smoke,

A reminder of death.

The line of men,

Battered and bruised,

In the factory lines,

Clothes dirtied.

I can only hope,

To stay relevant,

In these changing times,

Of industry,

And smog.