A bench isn't much of a bench,
when there's no one to have a seat.
Dreams are just dreams,
when reality is said to defeat.

They don't care about what you want,
or care about what you need.
They're looking at your ghost town,
with a need to be freed.

They retreat to where they parked,
just a ways down the street.
The silence is so very loud,
but still remains discrete.

When the colors have faded,
and the fire burns out.
And the people are gone....
you become the drought.