Motor Graveyard Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

Here lies a graveyard where statues of steel,
carved in calamity, spiral to the sky,
twisted and torn into being on an impulse,
created in a high moment of destruction,
when heavy blood beats the cortical round,
craving to express.

Blood and sweat contended for these creations,
chilled to tarmacs by the winds of maddening urges.

They were later taken and mounted here,
on the edge of town,
as monuments unattended by their creators
who could explain, perhaps, their intricacies
with a word or a gesture.

These works, when created,
already far outlived those minds and hearts
that bore them, shaped them, launched them
in delirious chaos.

Now, here, in this deserted graveyard,
appraised only by the monotones
of indifferent winds,
these single creations stand,
anonymous in number.