Fallen Icons Poem by M S Latter

Doors swing limply
in the steel breeze.
Beaten and gashed,
shrieking and crying
for their former glory.

A shining mosaic carpet
crunches uncomfortably underfoot.
Shattered glass
glimmering
with the crimson rays of sunset.

In the puddles of the recent shower
swirl eddies of multicoloured oil,
distorting the reflections
of the rusting carcasses.

Hundreds of iron skeletons
lined up
in a pitiful parade.
Alloy wheels, toughened glass,
halogen headlights.

Status symbols
once.
Used, abused,
thrashed, crashed, and burnt-out.
Redundant.
They now mingle with the earth
from which they were once made.