This town is empty.
This town is empty.
All the people left like birds
Itching for a migration binge.
It was summer and something tells me they
Died along the way.
This town is empty.
The song of even my favorite
Cardinal is merely a page of
Broken notes and measures on the pavement,
The color of thirsty rose petals and rust.
This town is empty.
Will we ever fly? Even the slow flicker of
The dimmed stoplight seems
Out of reach, directing anyone and no one
To this bathetic purgatory.
This town is empty.
The people never had wings.
Nor have I. Any matriarchal phoenix
Lies still in a torched thicket.
These flames are only for me; they die slowly.
All the people left like birds
Itching for a migration binge.
It was summer and something tells me they
Died along the way.
This town is empty.
The song of even my favorite
Cardinal is merely a page of
Broken notes and measures on the pavement,
The color of thirsty rose petals and rust.
This town is empty.
Will we ever fly? Even the slow flicker of
The dimmed stoplight seems
Out of reach, directing anyone and no one
To this bathetic purgatory.
This town is empty.
The people never had wings.
Nor have I. Any matriarchal phoenix
Lies still in a torched thicket.
These flames are only for me; they die slowly.