An old town that creaks as it spins the Earth's dying flame
So small in the palms of its dying love.
People come here to restart, learning the ways of the wrinkled hands that cradle it
Ripping up the backroads to start the voyage to fun.
The same backroads that started the stories we only hear once they're old and gray, and so are its people.
Them, tempted to tell them all, as there was such a short time left to illustrate the old spots and their routines that never got old.
Old cafes sit like a landmark, built with love as love never dies.
Old souls with their hands holding coffee cups and a kind smile, as the same love poured into their eyes.
Home never felt so close here, hammy downs, slow-moving water, chickadees, and knowing every police officer in town.
As your mom bakes for them, smells of buttery peanut butter, sweet homemade cupcakes, and gooey chocolate chip cookies sit there tempting you.
Stray cats named as they seek it. Golden boy, a tabby of 14 years, teaching his familiar ways as they survive from the love of kids' neighbors.
Guinea hens play like children, splashing, crackling, and driving the quiet mad.
Quiet churches sit, aching with every story of God playing its piano.
White paint peeling, old light flickering, and blue stained glass begging for a new start as you enter the white doors bleeding for forgiveness.
Graveyard, one of hope after the other; proving not everything that is dead is lost of all.
Mothers, brothers, sisters, and branches of a tree lost of all roots, this palace is a place of one last hug of peace, from a white light that bites us all.
We are one here. Hand and hand as we brace for the next storm that takes us. All as one, never leaving a stranger unseen.
So small in the palms of its dying love.
People come here to restart, learning the ways of the wrinkled hands that cradle it
Ripping up the backroads to start the voyage to fun.
The same backroads that started the stories we only hear once they're old and gray, and so are its people.
Them, tempted to tell them all, as there was such a short time left to illustrate the old spots and their routines that never got old.
Old cafes sit like a landmark, built with love as love never dies.
Old souls with their hands holding coffee cups and a kind smile, as the same love poured into their eyes.
Home never felt so close here, hammy downs, slow-moving water, chickadees, and knowing every police officer in town.
As your mom bakes for them, smells of buttery peanut butter, sweet homemade cupcakes, and gooey chocolate chip cookies sit there tempting you.
Stray cats named as they seek it. Golden boy, a tabby of 14 years, teaching his familiar ways as they survive from the love of kids' neighbors.
Guinea hens play like children, splashing, crackling, and driving the quiet mad.
Quiet churches sit, aching with every story of God playing its piano.
White paint peeling, old light flickering, and blue stained glass begging for a new start as you enter the white doors bleeding for forgiveness.
Graveyard, one of hope after the other; proving not everything that is dead is lost of all.
Mothers, brothers, sisters, and branches of a tree lost of all roots, this palace is a place of one last hug of peace, from a white light that bites us all.
We are one here. Hand and hand as we brace for the next storm that takes us. All as one, never leaving a stranger unseen.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.