Past, Present, Loops

In a town where shadows stretch like whispers,

And cobblestones hum with the echo of sighs,

The clocks tick backward, as if in jest,

While the stars align to a song of goodbyes.

Each dawn, they rise in a dance of the known,

With coffee brewed from yesterday’s dreams,

And the children play games with the ghosts of the past,

Chasing the flickering, fading moonbeams.

The market stalls overflow with memories stale,

As vendors hawk time like a fleeting errant breeze,

“Buy one, get two of yesterdays lost,”

Their smiles held tight like rusting keys.

Filmy curtains drape over windows so wide,

They’re drawn against visions of fresh, wild skies.

The streets are paved with unturned stones,

Where ambition in cobwebs silently lies.

The library’s books weave their tales of despair,

With pages that flutter in dust-coated air.

In margins, the scribbles of what could have been

Are penned by the hands of those unaware.

At twilight, the lamps flicker on with a grin,

Casting shadows that tango with laughter,

But the air hangs thick with the scent of regret,

As they spin through the loop, a circular after.

Forgotten horizons loom just out of sight,

While dreams are tamed into straight lines of fate,

And the people dance on the edge of the now,

Unravelling threads that they never debate.

So they waltz through the loop, hands clasped like old friends,

Each step a reminder of paths that have crossed.

In this winking illusion of comfort, they dwell,

A tune softly played, but the music's long lost.