The Town

Dust camouflages the clear waters of Crimton-Wolf Town .

Mysteries with pearl drops of miseries in forms of cloud tears crash down onto the surface ,

each droplet creating a sound,

a distant, yet close discovery .

Never lost: never found .

Nothing but glossed over recovery.

Coves of broken bones past the nature throne of limestone ,

a peaceful, serene, simplistic melody .

A shower of eerie satisfaction through my headphones.

Paths leading to grass leading to gardens of a house ,

stone walls protecting filth and lies :

abandoning chouse .

Windowsills covered with half-eaten pills for the mentally ill and

enough ash to cause a fire drill .

Disheartened morals overcome by bottles of liquor to drown the sorrows .

As the rain pours down and bounces from the glass,

the masks stare out, breathing in the gas

of depression, aggression, and corrupt decompression.

The town, the lake, the forest daybreak.

The oil in the air, the grain of despair.

The contaminated transparency running through your mangled hair ,

and when the stars align at the time of true heartbreak,

the legend becomes a reality in Crimton-Wolf Lake.