The Pathos of Dragons

Abandonded mills
straddle tired rivers
in Seekonk and Pawtucket
like dragons empty of flame.
Their grandeur decays in silence,
culled from memory
by an ageless predator.

Shells of glass and brick remember
when yarn was woven into fabric,
patterns cut and stitched
by machines without silicon memory,
machines driven by coal and water.

Before assembly lines, before progress
was a quarterly projection,
knowledge and permission
were sought in the entrails of animals,
from the living spirit of rock and tree.
Ancient mist carried secrets
between river and earth, and dreams
were not yet hidden in sleep.

Before Fulton, before Gallileo,
the sky was a map
of the history of the Gods.
Men who took personally
the duties of myth
slew Gorgon and Minotaur
and vanquished the demons that grow
in own hearts, to shield us
from ourselves.