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By Trilby Severn

Mon, 02 Sep 2013

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The narrow roads waver,

desolate with age,

patched by onyx pavement

swearing the same tune,

"we are not without hope.

We are not without hope."

Droplets of silvered sky

hang on old and new shoulders-

tears turned down

from heaven

the mist of the seasoned town

greets needy palms

Where sullen hearts rest

along cracked sidewalks

hugging rows of Victorian homes

dilapidated walls

spell not of our poverty.

The clank and thunder

of near train tracks-

the scorch of former bodies

lost between the trails.

These souls don't roam

for necessity

Old traffic lights

undulating red.

bleary around the frame

of the distant Potomac

in uncertain finality.

Permalink Submitted by Ray Schaufeld on Mon, 2013-09-02 16:16

Interesting. The inner city and the narrators' inner feelings appear to blur together effectively. Elsie