A chilling solemn breeze sweeps thru the town,
Down empty streets where children used to play;
The crumbled buildings, many falling down,
A monument to history's darkest day.
The rusted hulks of burned out motor cars,
Discarded bicycles against a wall,
The roads that carry disused tram-line scars,
The poignant remnants of the old church hall.
No more, the children laughing in the street;
No more, the parents in their Sunday best;
No more, the echoes of jack booted feet;
Forever shall ye martyrs lay in rest.
        The town will always stand as testament,
        To sons and daughters France will e'er lament.

I remember the little men
in big boots. The ones who sat
at the edge of roof tops in a city called
Loneliness, and cut their teeth while chewing jagged glass and angry truths.
They parachuted down to earth
and hit their heads on desperation.
Hollowed out hearts with tree trunks
serving as legs, they marched
across the stratosphere until their existences neared zero. Nothing
more to disappearing than popping
some pills, falling asleep, and dreaming
that the whole world had gone mad.
The interesting part is when you wake up
and you can still hear the echo of
unfilled boots.