Tumbleweed Town.

I don’t recall the sight of a floating butterfly,
or treading the steep decline of a rolling hillside;
too long from the rising whisper of an approaching tide.
I doubt anything will grow through the cracks in these roads
and I await a stronger wind to help these buildings corrode.
The bags beneath my eyes surfaced some time ago
and this place is no home of mine.

Well there might be some beauty, like a last wilting rose,
hidden deep somewhere in the barbed hedge rows,
but the thorns of the bushes are tearing my clothes
and I don’t want to remain should my rags disappear.
I’d be crestfallen if I fell to my first frontier
when I’ve so many devices and relentless ideas.
Still this place will never be a home of mine.