The town is new,
its buildings washed in grey.
The streets are clean,
it's peaceful here—
but its too quiet.
Everything here is bleak,
so colorless, drained of thought.
The people stay inside,
I can't hear them smiling,
can't see them laughing.
Today, the streets are busy,
its a funeral march of faces
they move in one direction,
headed to the same place,
but they don't go together.
They're all going somewhere.
to do something unimportant.
They built another building,
big and grey, empty of laughter.
People act out scenes that once felt funny,
but they act only for the camera,
they only laugh for the camera.
No one looks up at the sky.
there's nothing there anymore—
just thin sheets of grey.
No gold, no silver,
even when the sun sinks.
I still see gold and silver,
hidden somewhere behind the clouds.
but this town stays grey.
I reach for my brush,
longing to paint something bright.
But each stroke fades—
the colors turn to ash,
grey bleeding into my hands.
I hate this town.
Ghostlight is a theater term. It's a single light left on in a theater when it's empty.
