Stealing Prose on a Dismal Evening

The men who walked this land I knew,
O’er soaring eves more than a few,
Now they are gone they will not see,
The way this land appears to me.
This iron steed must think it queer
To stop without mechanic near,
His static frame rests idly by,
and may not move again i fear.
Theres no-one left to lift the mood,
To have a drink or share some food,
The only sounds that fill the air,
reek of emotions made of wood.
This land was lovely dark and deep,
While I had promises to keep,
My promises are nearly kept,
And then it will be time I slept.

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