I am one who knows
the streets that run
through the shabby
houses and abandoned
warehouses of my
hometown ravaged by
depression.
I sift daily through the
shambles of that nearby
ghost town, stifling mind
and body's urge to stiffen
in its own grip
as I take my daily hobble
down the straight and
narrow driveway of a
quick fix ambition to
the neutral, tarnished
armored messenger
standing by the roadside,
holding high his red
flag lifted as a sort of
triumphant battle cry
or a sign of warning.
I approach this messenger
with hope of receiving
the promise of yet
another Golden Age boom.
But I know more so the
wooded paths gliding
aimlessly amid fallen
needles of pine which
repress unwanted but
necessary undergrowth;
and the cheering leaves
of the slight wistful
poplars spiteful diverting
of my attention away
from the
strong and silent oak.
I kick up leaves in defiance
of the fallen leaves of a soul
in a midsummer's dream of
a soul covered by a
deceivingly comforting
white shawl of a slow-
creeping season.
I once strode proud and tall
down and through these
streets and roads, paths and
meadows, winding and stretching deeper into the
summer of a clear-sighted
tomorrow.
I am now slightly bent
with a walking stick of experience, hobbling
down and through streets
and roads, paths and
meadows, dense thickets
and swamps, winding and stretching deeper into the autumn of a somewhat
dim-sighted tomorrow.
Nov 25, 2025
Nov 25, 2025 at 9:00 AM UTC
I am one who knows
the streets that run
through the shabby
houses and abandoned
warehouses of my
hometown ravaged by
depression.
I sift daily through the
shambles of that nearby
ghost town, stifling mind
and body's urge to stiffen
in its own grip
as I take my daily hobble
down the straight and
narrow driveway of a
quick fix ambition to
the neutral, tarnished
armored messenger
standing by the roadside,
holding high his red
flag lifted as a sort of
triumphant battle cry
or a sign of warning.
I approach this messenger
with hope of receiving
the promise of yet
another Golden Age boom.
But I know more so the
wooded paths gliding
aimlessly amid fallen
needles of pine which
repress unwanted but
necessary undergrowth;
and the cheering leaves
of the slight wistful
poplars spiteful diverting
of my attention away
from the
strong and silent oak.
I kick up leaves in defiance
of the fallen leaves of a soul
in a midsummer's dream of
a soul covered by a
deceivingly comforting
white shawl of a slow-
creeping season.
I once strode proud and tall
down and through these
streets and roads, paths and
meadows, winding and stretching deeper into the
summer of a clear-sighted
tomorrow.
I am now slightly bent
with a walking stick of experience, hobbling
down and through streets
and roads, paths and
meadows, dense thickets
and swamps, winding and stretching deeper into the autumn of a somewhat
dim-sighted tomorrow.
©2025 Daniel Tucker
All Rights Reserved.
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