Hometown.

An in-between is a good place to start.
Mine is bookended by peace and quiet
And by faster-and-fastest pace.

It has made me an in-between person, with
A thirst for the finer things and
A proclivity for the simple ones.

This in-between place is my hometown,
Made up of old walls of infinite dust
And nameless, beaten-down streets.

Oh, the stories these walls and these streets
Could tell, of the countless souls they’ve
Sheltered and suffered, and for what?

In an age long lost to unwritten pages,
A higher purpose called them to a fate,
The choice made for them to be silent witnesses.

Hosts for the foils and follies of strange beings
With decrepit secrets and unspoken sentiments;
Fortunate souls with the power to choose.

No one is guilty in in-betweens, for they have
No room to judge — unlike their sheltered souls.
They remain an oasis of rest and reprieve.

Many thanks to their divested liberty,
Us strange beings are left to our own devices
Bursting with undetermined potential.

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Published by boxofgales