By M. E. Riddle
Gazing out at vast fields of hills
Watching the nothing machines labor
To quietly yield
Blood oil deep from mother earth
Tethered to limbo by steel and dirt
Feeding the insatiable industrial birth
Of man, and his infinite quest
To conquer, to be the best
And to have all the gold
His pockets can hold
And it was then I realized
That this place is me.
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