Our town isn’t ours. What can be yours, when all that exists are blocks of boarded up buildings unable to speak and open their arms to you anymore.
What can you hear that makes you want to stay? Rallies and cheers that we just can’t get behind. Behind our town? Which isn’t, really, is it?
Nothing survives for long, here, in our town (which remains not our town). The wind howls empty promises and if the sky cries, she sure doesn’t have a name to call out to. This place, we can’t, won’t, never will own.
Picture - N
Words - S
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