Every cherry blossom wood sideboard cabinet.

Somewhere to be found junk in a remote building, 

at the far edge of one of those spots in any town,

 of some renown that occupies only minuscule space,

 on a gaudy grandiose relief map,

 that’s a relief to have fancy title gobbledegook appointee,

 expert interpret with its gadget generated referenced points, 

that would bog down those brainiacs,

 whose legendary focus defies limits,

this segment of town which is almost  its own fog mist,

 and haze as the dusty steam curves wickedly upwards, 

as a rebuff to the glare

in  the sense,

 of bemused passersby whose urge, to peep slyly might be repulsed,

 by the macabre surroundings,

the mind can be sectioned like an old hutch,

partitions can be built up, moulded, refashioned, skyscraped 

tower blocked astounding to perceive, 

yet frightening in its gargantuan stoic steadfastish fixedness.