BY ALEX GILLIS
A forest with smoke rising from the ground below,
Yet there is no visible fire.
Patches of grass are visible here and there,
Dried wood litters the ground.
There are a few holes and scratches
On the green oak trees left standing.
Over the hill the ground is cracked
Like a mighty earthquake
That has divided the land.
Old rusty shotgun shells lie
Mixed in with the rubble.
A fifteen foot hole in a mountain wall
With charred trash inside.
A single blackened shoe with no shoelaces.
Mixed with bones of some long-dead animal.
A thick forest opens to reveal grown-in grass,
Then a street that leads nowhere.
A town where the most pristine place is
A rusted pipe protrudes from the earth
A small circular fence surrounds it.
A lot of smoke,
Leaving from the pipe.
Stone steps and a driveway lead up to a mix
Of spruce and oak trees,
Vines, grass, and spider webs.
Trash and old dirty clothes scattered and left behind.
Leads to more of the same.
A sinkhole is in a backyard.
Trace smells of smoke,
Coal and sulfur
A single church surrounded by trees on top of a hill,
A flagpole carries an American flag,
Recently cut grass.
A wooden mine cart sits still,
With no bottom,
Torn cloth slightly waves on the inside.
This one has a road divider in the middle.
A raised piece of pavement,
With no shortage of grass and weeds growing out of them.
More smoke comes from the cracks in ground.
Not just cracks now.
Full on gaps,
Some big enough to fall into.
With graffiti everywhere.
Writing on the road that says:
“This is where She
Appears in the dark of night”
“The end is near”
And “Silent Hill P.A.”
Mother Nature waged war with this town,
Setting an ever lit fire,
That burned the underneath of the ground settled on.
A ghost town in Pennsylvania,
A single white and blue sign that says,
“Borough of Centralia.”