A stacked pile of matchbox dwellings,
yellow hue visible from the shades.
Meant for hiding the darkest truths
and never to be shared escapades.
A withered leaf struggles to escape,
the branch it grew upon.
The fall wind sets it free,
and the dead beauty treads on.
Across the gravel road of my bedlam,
a street lamp casts a flickering light.
Like the rhythmic notes of a violinist
playing an ode to a mesmerizing sight.
The bard sees a silhouette,
his titfer' tip shines.
Circling the edges of the block,
the watchmen protect the times.
