The Welcome Home

Walking down these old streets 
Is like returning to the grave
The buildings are hollow and boarded
Once full of joy, they cease to exist
And the tumbleweeds blowing by
Used to be a welcome sign
Of the incoming rain
All of which has seemed to dry
And the people I grew to love
Seemingly vanished when the 
Rails meandered another way
Walking along these tracks
I can the feel the past turning
To rust, breaking down at every spike
Once the home of expansion
Now an ever expanding desert
At the gateway of my memories.

Published by Bryn Montgomery


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