PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In this alley once walked the feet

Of young men and women whilst making their way to study the day.

Tailored shirts all nice and neat.

Such contrast to the alley floor where fashion's statements tread no more

And peering around and all I saw,

Black ash. Jet black ash. 

In this alley were fences made, 

Back garden make do's in such cramped space; privacy granted to mask the face.

Contact slowly had its fade.

Now no eyes remain, no sign of  living

Damp wood left scrap for nature giving. Erinus Alpinus slowly filling.

Shattered pieces beneath the shade,

Smoke cloud rises. 

In this alley did music play,

Music that boasted of its past, but no one knew that wouldn't last.

Rhythmic joys all flushed away.

Now silence blasts the open space, and rips a chord through fallen waste.

Now all that's left, smorzando haste. 

The death of the ballade.

In this alley did I once journey,

Through pleasant smells does memory feast, I crave those times to say the least. 

But now the alley does not call me.

It weeps the loss from raging fires, caused by thoughts one man desired,

Through which he hatched and then conspired. 

The man who once for fences hired.