to grey skies in dead towns

by 01:39 0 comments
Our town moves around in layers and layers 
of whispers and gossip, 
there are too many words that go around. 
she says the moon replies to her on days it’s crescent, 
he says he wore music one day, 
played his violin till the end of his breath, 
his notes coinciding with his heartbeat, 
holding the rhythm in his hands, 
she says she gambled away her fortune, 
lost everything in one night, 
sold her dignity the next. 
every word gets tossed around in gutters 
and clinked along fine china on dinner tables, 
petite housewives discuss with bated breaths, 
the fate of the girl whose father was arrested in a scam, 
and the affairs of the one whose husband was shipped out, 
in the army for the war. ‘she spends her days away at strange places,’
they say, 
she returns only in the death of the night, 
the light is always switched on, 
her movements are news in the morning paper, 
tea and biscuits are served along.

the town reporter spends his days,
talking about a drug epidemic that’s yet to come, 
and bugs to beware from, 
the monotony takes over the skies, 
most days, sunlight feels grey, 
the nights get loud in the bachelor’s room, 
he dances like he owns the rhythm, 
a little intoxicated by his own music, 
a little breathless by his movement, 
he loses himself a little, 
the town calls him a lunatic, 
he makes the town a little alive.

_to grey skies in dead towns


National Poetry Writing Month, Day 22. 


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