“A perfect place to raise a family.”
An unachievable utopian aspiration,
A tarnished legacy claimed its grave.
Under streetlights that flicker still
Ghost-bright over identical crypts,
Ragged vacant lots never filled.
Frigid apathy amidst forgotten shells;
Fragmented cookie-cutter cast-offs,
Hollow and rigour mortis settling in.
A lack of saint and sinners walk by
Bare copper bones and wasted hubris
On dead grass islets of cans and rollups.
Perish beside trapped, unhappy souls
Fenced in by white picket idealism,
Ageing too fast in seasons of waiting.
Dust to dust, repossessed by nature,
Marked with mausoleum baby dolls,
Festering within an eternal perdition.
