This city, it's quite beautiful
Sometimes.
It's a pool of silvery light,
A network of roads, rivers, pulsing veins,
A tangled web of intricacies and
Soul,
Spun from the hearts of ancestors we never knew.
On the outskirts of
This city, lies a lonely village, some thirty miles from here.
A site of dereliction, forgotten,
A no-man's land.
-
I gaze out the window of the rickety old bus,
Having paid my over priced fair for the ride.
Slowly the bus shudders to a halt,
It does not enter the village.
I, the last passenger
Step off and watch the bus choke and wheeze
And drive away.
I dont think
They'll send another until tomorrow,
For the place is almost empty.
The village is a forgotten garden,
Its beauty only visible to those who want to see it.
Amid the dereliction,
abandoned,
I am another part of the wasted scenery.
