The Town… (Dear Centralia)

Home of the keystone, vision the rolling hills |
within existence there is a Hell that’ll give you chills |
home of the coal mines, gone with an iron will |
deep within the borders of Ashland and Byrnesville |
the very last house was slaughtered in all bliss |
crumbled the cornerstone it was over in ’96 |
remember this, never, but I insist |
that I assist a memory for you to reminisce |
dearly beloved, come and follow a lost one |
travel the gravel lonely road of Route 61 |
run, strip of the highway vehicles have abandoned |
split by the devil even the median is damaged |
reprimanded my fascination and infatuation |
with a vacant town that was murdered from state evacuation |
the mere presence of the past is complacent |
Satan punished the pavement now the village is foresaken |
so out of 2,000 only a few souls |
from the soda jerk era are still calling it home |
a hand full above seven |
carbon monoxide from the hillside never sent a single kid to heaven |
the flame came from a strip mine so long ago |
the ground beneath your very feet could open sinkholes |
beneath the Odd Fellow Cemetary headstones |
believe in the coal through Hellfire and brimstone |
pushing the people to other counties they had to go |
prohibited zone the state revoked the zip code |
enviornmental contamination ecology |
the town that for was forgotten through historical photography |
and it’s blessing that I’ve built this obssession |
to explore such a terrain where civilization took a regression |
and mother nature is claiming the lost township |
grass covers all of the foundation of houses |
at least that’s what they were, during another time |
smell of a poisonous gas, venomous enzymes |
a timespan with four decs under the belt |
I wish that I could travel in time to feel what they felt |
a subtle home we gotta leave, here is where I wanna be |
but the fire below’s making it hard to breathe |
the gasoline is at a boiling point |
in ’83 statewide heard the government’s voice |
safety, blame the heat from trash dump in the hills |
the congress deposited $42 mil |
still, respect the flame like a suicide with the propane |
personal property considered eminent domain |
quiet streets, no cars, few people |
a few houses left, and a decaying steeple |
ventilation pipes polka-dot the outskirts |
fumes are hazardous, beneath the surface is the worst |
miles of coalmines, larceny lights the dark |
and to imagine it all started from one spark |
in the 50’s and by the 60’s |
the commonwealth evicted families from the vicinity |
reality’s a nightmare with a bitter dream |
the Centralians will return in 2016 |
I traveled from afar and discover this ghost town |
searching for holograms of the past on foreign ground |
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