Darkness on the Edge of Town
Atop the hill, the seed was sowed.
it's existed since
father time tipped the hourglass—
setting in motion the
golden sands-
hanging, fluttering like a veil,
prison walls closing in
upon the darkness on the edge of town.
The township expands
in all directions, stopping
at the Bastillian border.
I have walked all dead-end streets,
unable to press further on,
unable to pull himself away.
As a young boy,
there existed a hill
on 3rd and Maple.
standing atop the mound,
the vista beyond his wall
seemed attainable,
if only I could climb higher.
So, I planted a tree,
acquiring the seed from
the old man across the way.
My palms outstretched, the seed fell-
the man's hands brushed against mine,
like sandpaper,
with bandages taped over varicose veins.
He smelled near death:
greasy and of argyle sweaters.
the man's eyes followed me
as I rushed off the rotting porch,
though the eyes were kind,
they brimmed with loneliness
and half-crazed dementia.
He watched me run,
muttering as he turned back inside,
"cut it loose or let it drag
you down."
Atop the hill, the seed was sowed.
when I was sure of no listeners,
I whispered to the tree
stories of what we would see
together,
of what was beyond the veil.
The tree grew gnarled and bent,
decrepit houses and neighborhoods
replaced with breathtakingly tall buildings.
Delighted, I scrambled up
circular staircases and
well-placed scaffolding.
Perched above the sky,
my illusion of what was beyond
shattered.
The veil extended into the clouds,
inducing the rain.
Wipers flash to and fro below,
cars stuck in traffic,
slowly disappearing into the shroud
that encloses my solitary confinement.
I slog home,
shoulders slumped with the
weight of the world.
About the Creator
Ryder Pittz
Poet, Traveler, Student
Constantly awed by the power of Humanity
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