The Ghosted Alleys We Called Home

I wandered through the alleys, 

no longer casting shadows,

once chattering walls now echoing its woes.

At the old coffee spot beside the lake

on a rusting stool, I rested my solitude

the brewing mug felt cold thunder.

My pants laced with brown crystals of rain 

remind me of pouring pain. 

The rain halted.

I bent over, only to find 

the roads soaked in ashes of souls.

Winter will follow

to freeze the laughter of our days.

Enclosing our aging secrets, 

the bricks have worn.

The waters that once eavesdropped

have deafened. 

With anger, the lonely shores splatter 

onto the brick stairs.

Until the lake brims in rage,

and the secrets unfurl on the page,

 the alleys will still be my way.