A Trip Home

The streets are not as wide or as long as they were before. Manicured lawns, painted houses and porches once filled with the laughter of playing children, all gone. Disappeared as if aliens had invaded and all the inhabitants had to flee to find refuge. Inhabited now by those who have changed the facade left by those living there day to day by faith. Faith that could be heard on every corner from the stands holding the singing birds and the pulpits that echoed. These creatures only take, no mind to recycle the knowledge left behind by those who left their mark through garden statues only now to be desecrated with the dung of pigeons. The Main street once dressed for the parades resemble a ghost town. Howling down the street faint voices of prosperity. Resurrection needed for a place, of a time and of a people crucified by poverty laid to rest in a tomb of rubble, waiting for an ascension.